


Dragon Aspect

by queenseamoose



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenseamoose/pseuds/queenseamoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She did it for Aventus. At least that was what she told herself, and in the beginning, it might have even been true. But a dragon’s will to dominate cannot be denied, and as the lines between heroes and villains blur, Monica Aretino fights to control her true nature…or else be consumed by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voth Ahkrin

She willed herself to wake, cracking open bleary eyes and fighting to take in her surroundings. Her bones jarred against each other in time with the throbbing in her skull, and as the fog in her head began to lift, she made out the rhythm of hoofbeats. And then the fog burned away in a searing blast of clarity, as every memory from the past several days came rushing back in.

Her heart had somehow become lodged in her throat, displaced by crushing weight now filling her chest. The blond soldier across from her was speaking—to her, she presumed, by the way he had shifted forward, his eyes locking on to hers—but she only saw his mouth moving, his words drowned out by the roaring in her ears. She quickly looked away, forcing her gaze downward into her lap. The sight of her bound hands sent a hand of panic to her throat, so instead she stared intently at her knees, memorizing every dirt stain, every frayed thread.

As her breathing settled into some semblance of a rhythm, she began to slowly take note of the surrounding spectacle. A now-green forest and a downward slope—they were descending the mountain. Legion armor, flashes of Imperial crimson—the Empire had taken charge. More wagons ahead of this one—all filled with patches of familiar blue. A quick glance back to the blond soldier confirmed it—they were all now prisoners. Only she wasn’t free.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her. Of course, though, she thought bitterly to herself. The Empire was thorough to a fault. They would have snapped up everyone in the camp—stopping to ask questions would have given the enemy the advantage. And any Legionnaire worth their salt would rather die than do so.

In one of her quick glances upward, she noted that another occupant of the wagon lacked the Stormcloak uniform. She lifted her head, thinking she’d found a friendly face—but no. This one was pale-skinned, with short, dark hair. She dropped her head again, but began gradually tuning into the conversation as the civilian stranger argued with the blond soldier. The stranger was mocking some other occupant of their wagon, but the blood froze in her veins at the soldier’s reply. “Watch your tongue. You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

She went still, every muscle freezing in place. Her heart dropped back into place and began thudding out a frantic rhythm that blurred together into one single note of terror. _No. Not him._ She turned her head very slightly to the right, just a little further…and there. Ulfric Stormcloak sat just two places down from her.

Her head snapped back into place, and she once again forced her stare to her knees. Had he seen her? Oh Divines, don’t let him have seen her. She was starting to perspire, and for a moment, she wildly considered the risks of hurling herself over the side of the wagon. But as she surveyed the mountain slope, she caught sight of something else through the trees.

Town walls rose up before them, and as they rounded a bend in the road, she could see the other wagons rolling through the gates. “Ah, Helgen,” the soldier remarked as they rolled through. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” His tone was relaxed—lazy, even. “And look, there’s General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.” His tone soured. “Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

Despite the fact that she was still plastered in the corner in hopes that Ulfric hadn’t noticed her, she lifted her head again at the mention of General Tullius. Over the soldier’s shoulder, there was an officer that could only be him, flanked by several imposing, golden-skinned figures clothed in black. “The Thalmor?” The alarm in the thief’s voice was clear. “Then…”

As if on cue, an Imperial soldier called out as they rolled past. “General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting.” The general gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the thief truly began to panic.

“Oh gods, no, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.” It _was_ happening, though, and the quiet knowledge silently dawned on her. But instead of fear, a shiver of dark mirth ran along her spine. She would die today—but Ulfric would die along with her. And that thought alone was enough to settle her breathing and slow her heart, to square her shoulders as the wagons rolled to a stop.

“Shor. Mara. Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh—Divines, please help me!” the thief cried frantically. “We’re not rebels!” As they stiffly lurched to their feet and shuffled off the end of the wagon, the soldier snapped a retort.

“Face your death with some courage, thief!”

How had this happened? How had she ended up here, facing a gruesome death alongside criminals and rebels? But as she slipped from the back of the wagon, wincing at the impact, she knew she had her answer. This was all her fault, she thought dizzily. She’d done this to herself. One small, seemingly-inconsequential choice, and she’d been set on this path.

She stared at the ground, her ears ringing as the guards began to call out the names of the rebels. If only she could go back, she thought, her dying wish echoing off the walls of her skull, unspoken. Back before the moment she’d made her choice. Before she’d left Cyrodiil. Before that day, nearly a month ago; the day the courier had come up the road…


	2. The Spring Snows Have Melted

When serving under nobles, there was one important rule to remember: _keep them happy_. And when keeping them happy meant spending an afternoon outside the walls under a beautiful summer sky, Monica was more than willing to oblige. Even if the excursion was doomed to be entirely unproductive.

The golden grass crunched under her feet as she wandered forward, heading toward a brightly-colored clump of wildflowers. Quickly plucking a few stalks, she scraped at them with a fingernail, only for them to merely crumble away. She sighed, but tossed them into her basket just the same. She'd known her search would yield no results, but her mother had still insisted on it. "Just make an _effort_ ," she'd hissed as they parted ways that morning. And Monica had done just that, too excited by the prospect of a day spent out in the sun to protest.

It had all started back in the winter, when her aunt's New Life gift had arrived: a silk ribbon, imported from Alinor. She hadn't given it a second thought when she'd tied it in her hair before rushing off to the feast—but the moment she'd walked into the dining hall, Lady Adlen had descended on her.

After she'd spent a good ten minutes fawning over the color of the ribbon, she had wheeled on Monica's mother and demanded a dress of the same material. And after being informed that importing enough of the fabric for a dress into Cyrodiil would be nigh on impossible, she had instead demanded that a dye of the same color be created.

And so for the past six months, Monica had lain awake at night, kept up by the sounds of her mother cursing from her laboratory as she struggled to brew the perfect formula. But none of her results had even come close, and Lady Adlen was only growing more impatient. When the lady had pointed out the window and shouted that _surely_ there was some mystery plant growing out there that could yield the shade she wanted, her head seamstress had simply sighed, pushed a basket into her daughter's hands, and with a pointed look, silently reminded her of the cardinal rule of working under nobles. And Monica had gleefully fled, scarcely able to believe her luck.

But that had been hours ago. The afternoon sun was blazing, and her dress was soaked with sweat under the arms and down the back. Setting the basket down with a weary sigh, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine pop as she did so. Glancing down, she considered the contents of the basket. Along with the dead wildflowers, she'd also picked up a few flax plants. She was fairly certain her mother had already been unsuccessful with using flax in a dye, but these were a similar shade to what Lady Adlen was looking for, so she'd picked them up anyway. Maybe her mother could figure out some way to make them work. Hoisting up the basket again, she turned and began trudging toward the road. She'd poke around on the east side for a bit and then call it a day.

"Excuse me!" The unexpected voice jolted her from her thoughts, sending her head snapping toward the road. The sweaty man was breathing heavily, hunched over with his hands planted on his knees—an unthreatening posture, but her hackles still rose. Nobody ever came this far up the road. Not like this, alone and on foot. She gripped the handle of the basket a little tighter, suddenly wishing she'd thought to bring along a spear or something. "You wouldn't happen to know the way to Battlehorn, would you?"

She approached cautiously, prepared to flee if he made any sudden moves. "Depends," she answered, slowly pronouncing the word. "What's your business there?"

"Got something I'm supposed to deliver." He indicated toward the satchel at his side, and she immediately recognized the courier's insignia. "That fellow back in Chorrol said I'd hit it if I just kept taking the road west, but…" He shrugged. "Is this still that road? I haven't passed it or anything, have I?"

Her initial wariness forgotten, she found herself breaking into a smile. "You're on the right track, but you're not there yet." She pointed up the road behind her. "Just keep going." Her smile widened when his face twisted into a grimace. "You're closer than you think," she reassured. "No more than twenty minutes out."

The courier groaned, but he straightened up, mopping at his forehead. "I'd best be going, then," he sighed. "Thank you." She nodded in acknowledgement, and drifted to the other side of the road as he continued his trek up the hill.

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, she was following in the courier's footsteps, having absolutely determined that there was nothing on the east side of the road that would be of any use to Lady Adlen. Her feet ached, she could feel the beginnings of a sunburn spreading across her cheeks, and she was dead tired, but she still managed to return the guard's wave as she passed through the gates.

Entering the courtyard, she caught sight of a figure at the forge. Her breath catching in her throat, she immediately altered her course, heading for the stairs up to the battlements. She could enter her family's quarters through the north tower easily enough; it'd be going the long way, but it'd be worth it to avoid certain people. Before her foot even touched the first stair, though, she heard the sound of her name.

"Monica! Hey Monica!" He'd seen her, then. Groaning under her breath, she slowly turned and made her way over to the forge and the young man who was waving eagerly, dragging her feet with every step.

"Heidmir," she greeted. He'd discarded his heavy gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms rippling as he pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"How've you been?" His grey eyes sparked with interest as he caught sight of her basket. "Been in the fields today?"

She sighed. "Not exactly," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Do remember when my aunt sent me that ribbon for New Life?"

"The purple one?" He raised his eyebrows, and she stifled a sigh. Leave it to Heidmir to always remember the most mundane details.

"Yes, well, Lady Adlen has decided she needs a dress the same color," she began, shifting her basket from one arm to the other. The second unspoken rule of serving nobility, of course, was to show them respect at all times, but Heidmir was the one person she could always feel free to break that rule with. "My mother's been working day and night to create a dye for her, but none of them—"

"—Are ever good enough. Of course." He grinned, and her stomach turned over on itself.

"Right, so today I got sent out to hunt for ingredients. Only there's _nothing_ out there." She held up a mass of the wildflowers, and he chuckled at her grimace.

"Poor Lady Adlen. I wonder what she'll do when she finds out what a lost cause this is," he remarked, picking up one of the wildflowers from her basket and twirling it between his fingers.

"Not sure, but I don't want to be around to find out," she said wryly. He smiled, dropping his gaze down to the wildflower he still held, and an awkward silence fell.

"How's your father?" she asked quickly. "I haven't seen him in a while; does he still come up for dinner?"

Heidmir's gaze flickered back up to hers. "Eh, well, his heart's been giving him trouble. You know how that goes." He rolled his eyes, and she smiled ruefully. "Orbul says he needs to rest, so he mainly stays inside. I can tend the forge myself easily enough, and he does more of the finer work. Finishing touches, that sort of thing." He leaned in closer as his tone dropped lower. "He's been pretty down about it, but we've got some news we're telling him tonight that should cheer him up."

"Oh?" She frowned slightly as Heidmir nodded, glancing over his shoulder before leaning forward to whisper in her ear.

"Kirsten's with child," he murmured. Her heart dropped into her stomach as he drew away with a smile, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

"Oh," she managed faintly. "I see; that's…" She swallowed hard. "That's big news, Heidmir."

"I know." He gave a broad grin. "It was unexpected, but we're thrilled. Kirsten's already picking out names. She thinks it'll be a girl, but I think she's got at least twice as many boy's names on her list," he chuckled.

She was surprised by the spurt of venom that shot through her veins at the mention of his wife. But Heidmir was staring at her, waiting for a response, so she forced aside her resentment. None of this was Kirsten's fault, she reminded herself.

"Congratulations." She smiled. "You'll make a wonderful father."

"I hope so." He laughed, rolling his eyes, but then the merriment faded, and a tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. "You'll keep this to yourself, won't you? It's just that we agreed to keep it quiet, and our parents don't even know yet…" He smiled apologetically, and she felt a faint prickle of annoyance. _Then why did you tell me?_

"Of course," she said, hoisting the basket up higher on her arm. "But I need to get these inside and hung up…"

"Right, of course, I won't keep you." His smile returned. "See you around, Monica. It was nice talking with you."

"You too." As he turned back to the forge, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding and slowly turned in the direction of the keep door. At this point, she reasoned sourly, there was no point in going out of her way.

* * *

 

Back in her family's quarters, she made her way to her mother's lab. The cool semi-darkness was a relief after the unrelenting inferno of the sun, and she paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust before she began rifling through her mother's desk. She found the string easily enough, deftly wrapping it around the stalks of the specimens and stringing them up along the drying wall. Now to tag them—her mother was meticulous about tagging.

The pre-cut squares of parchment were in their slot in the desk, as were the quills, but she had to hunt for the inkpot before finally finding it in the bergamot stores. Despite her bad humor, she found herself smiling as she returned to the desk. If there were an award for practicing organized chaos, her mother would most certainly be the winner. She began to carefully write out the descriptions of the plants and where they had been found, but in between the scratches of the quill, her ears picked up on another sound.

Frowning, she set aside the quill and stood, making her way over to the doorway. "Hello?" she called cautiously. There was no sign of anyone when she popped her head into the bedroom, but the sound persisted, something similar to a faint sniffling. "Mama?" She tiptoed toward the curtain that portioned off their eating area and, grasping hold of the faded cloth, slowly slid it aside—only to let out a gasp.

There sat her mother, tears streaming from her eyes, a piece of crumpled parchment clutched in her hand. "Mama!" She immediately rushed to her mother's side, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. "What is it? What's happened?" She eyed the parchment, but couldn't manage to make out any of the words.

"It's Naalia." Guinevere Aretino took the handkerchief and dabbed at reddened eyes. "She's dead." For a moment, Monica stared at her, unable to comprehend. Then, she felt the blood drain from her face.

"Aunt Naalia?" She sank into the chair across from her mother as she gasped the words out, and Guinevere shakily nodded. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

Guinevere straightened in her chair, glancing down at the parchment in hand. "Typhoid fever. It says she fell ill during the winter and never…" She began to sob again, and Monica sat in silence, her face propped in her hand. She'd only ever met her Aunt Naalia once, but she remembered a gentle, pleasant woman with a smile that could make the entire room glow. Naalia always sent gifts for every New Life and birthday, and she and Guinevere had stayed in contact over the years through letters. Although, now that she thought about, the last contact from Naalia had been around New Life; in fact, she had been the one to send the ribbon that had started Lady Adlen's fixation.

"How did we not know about this until now?" Monica finally asked. Guinevere held up the parchment.

"The courier said it was a harsh winter, and the spring snows blocking the pass only melted about a month back," she answered bleakly. "Besides, there's apparently trouble in the province, and he said all of their deliveries have been terribly backed up…" She trailed off as a new wave of tears appeared, and as she dabbed them away, a cold chill ran down Monica's spine as she realized that she had passed the grim messenger himself on the road.

"But the problem now," Guinevere sniffed into the handkerchief, "the problem is Aventus." Monica frowned as her mother continued. "We're the only family he has now, so that makes us his guardians. Only since we weren't there to take him in…" Monica's eyes widened as she realized the implications, and her hand shot across the table to pick up the letter.

"This is dated First Seed," she said urgently, jabbing a finger at the line bearing the date. "That was four months ago; he's not…he hasn't been…?"

"He's not on the streets, thank the Divines." Guinevere shook her head, pointing to the letter. "He's been sent to an orphanage in the next hold." She sighed. "Poor thing, though. I hate to think of him waiting there, thinking we've abandoned him…"

Monica gave a mummer of sympathy. She'd never met her young cousin, but he had written them several letters over the years, telling stories about his friends, his school, and his pet dog in a direct, childish handwriting. "So what do we do?" she asked. "Hire someone to bring him here?"

Guinevere shook her head. "Mercenaries are expensive, Monica." She stood and crossed over to the cupboard, opening it up and feeling around the inner top of it before pulling something loose. "I have some coin saved, but it's not much." She tossed the coinpurse to her daughter, who grimaced at its meager weight as she hefted it in her hand. "We'll have to go get him ourselves and bring him back here, only…"

"Only?" Monica's eyebrows arched, and her mother carefully sat back down across from her.

"I've been thinking it over all afternoon," she said as she rearranged her skirts, not making eye contact with her daughter. "Lady Adlen…well, she hasn't been exactly pleased with me as of late." Monica grimaced, knowing far too well the extent of the situation. "And on top of it, it's a long journey; there's travel costs and lodging and food…" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "And you see what we have there—that's _all_ of our savings, Monica. It's not just the cost of the trip that worries me. If I'm not working, I'm not making money."

"So what does that mean for Aventus?" Monica frowned, eyes clouding over with worry, and Guinevere finally met her daughter's gaze.

"I need you to go and get him." For a moment, Monica simply sat in silence.

"What? Mama, you can't be serious." She stared across the table at her mother, aghast. "I can't go to Skyrim, I've barely ever left Battlehorn, and I've only been to Chorrol, what, _twice_? And I can't—"

"Monica." Her mother's voice cut her off, and she immediately fell silent. Guinevere was using her serious tone—something Monica hadn't heard since she was in her teens. "I know it's asking a lot, but I _need_ you to do this for me." Monica bit the inside of her lip at Guinevere's earnest expression. Her tone was bordering on pleading, and that made her feel distinctly nervous. "I need you to do it for Aventus."

Monica sighed. Despite the overwhelming notion of travelling across Tamriel on her own, the thought of her little cousin trapped among strangers was unbearable. And besides, she was already feeling haunted by her mother's desperate expression and by the light coinpurse. So even though there was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she began to nod.

"All right," she relented. "I'll do it." The look of pure relief that filled Guinevere's puffy eyes nearly made up for the newly-developed anxiety boiling inside her.

"Thank you." Her mother reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I really do appreciate this."

"How am I going to get there?" she asked, her mind already spinning. If she was doing this— _really_ doing this—she at least needed to know exactly what it would entail. Questions were piling up against each other in her head, and she was already beginning to feel suffocated by them.

"The Pale Pass route would probably be best this time of year," Guinevere answered, propping her elbows on the tabletop. "You can get a carriage from Chorrol to Bruma easily enough, and then I'm sure it will be no trouble to find passage across the border." At Monica's doubtful look, Guinevere smiled faintly. "We'll figure it out. I think Avik was up that way a few years ago; I'm sure he knows what the travel's like. I'll ask around."

Her words were meant to be reassuring, but Monica only felt her apprehension multiply. She'd left County Chorrol only once in her life, and that had been when she was no older than Aventus, safe under the watch of her parents. Setting out on her own was entirely different—not to mention downright terrifying. But she'd pull through it. She had to—for Aventus. They'd figure out the arrangements, she'd follow the plan, and she'd bring Aventus back safe and sound. Everything would work itself out. She would have nothing to worry about.


	3. Unbroken Road

Several weeks later, Monica stood in front of North Country Stables, her pack of belongings on her back and her heavy woolen cloak over her arm. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but the sun was already scorching, and as time wore on, its rays began to beat down upon the paving stones, sending waves of heat shimmering upward. It would be a downright miserable day to spend in a carriage, bumping along in the dust for hours with no escape from the tyranny of the sun. But unfortunately enough for her, that was her plan for the day.

After weeks of planning, she and Guinevere had finally gotten the arrangements in order. Avik had hitched up one of the older mares and driven her down from Battlehorn that morning, and today she would take a carriage to Bruma. Tomorrow, she would begin the actual journey to Skyrim, a trip that would take her across the Jerall Mountains and end in the Skyrim city of Whiterun. From there, she would go on to a city called Riften, where Honorhall, the orphanage caring for Aventus, was located.

She shifted her cloak from one arm to another, grimacing at the sweat-dampened sleeve of her dress. She’d protested that she didn’t need to bring the cloak along, but her mother had insisted that the pass would be cold, even in the summertime. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she turned to gaze at the Jeralls, noting the whiteness at the peaks. Hard to believe that tomorrow, she would be up among them.

She turned her head at the sound of a creaking hinge to see a figure exiting the stables. He headed toward the corral, pausing when he caught sight of her. “Here for the nine o’clock to Bruma?” he asked. At her nod, he smiled. “I’m getting the horses ready now. Shouldn’t be too much longer. We may even get an early start.” He turned back to the corral, but then paused again. “Oh, and it’s a twenty septim fare. Just in case you wanted to go ahead and get that ready.”

Her hand immediately flew to her belt, where the coinpurse resided, along with the pouch containing her identification papers and the letter from the steward. She’d been anxiously reaching for them all morning, afraid that they’d somehow been lost—either fallen off or stolen. To her relief, they were still in their place, but she still glanced around nervously as she tugged the coinpurse free. Handling coin always made her nervous—especially out in the open like this and in these amounts—and besides, several other passengers had begun drifting over in her direction. The majority of her mother’s life savings glittered back at her when she opened the coinpurse—it would be just enough to cover the costs of the trip, but she had every intention of bringing as much of it back as she could. Travel and inn costs were set in stone, but she was hoping to save on food. She’d raided the kitchen last night, and had managed to cram at least a day or two’s worth of provisions into her pack.

“All right, folks!” The driver’s voice finally rang out, breaking through her thoughts. “We’re all set to get on the road. Please line up in an orderly fashion and have your payment ready as you climb in. Larena here,” he indicated toward the burly woman in armor at his side, “will be our guard today.”

“The guard’s just a precaution,” someone muttered as they filed toward the carriage. “Attacks have gone down since drivers stopped carrying the payment with them.” Actually, Monica noted as she handed her fare over, touching the coinpurse once again as she took her seat, their danger would be minimal today because it wasn’t raiding season. In the height of summer, food was plentiful, but come autumn, bandit tribes would begin stocking up for the winter, and they would be hungry again come spring.

As predicted, the journey was uneventful. She was pleasantly surprised, however, that most of the Orange Road was heavily shaded, making the day far less uncomfortable than anticipated. She had seen the expanse of the Great Forest from the battlements at home, of course, but the distance failed to capture the full scope of it. They stopped around noon to let the horses drink, but the constant jolting motion and being crushed in with the other passengers still wore on her, a fact that was only made worse when they made the turn onto the Silver Road. But as the carriage approached Wildeye Stables, her throbbing head and aching body were quickly forgotten as she stared around in wonder. Everything about the land here was different—colors, textures, flora, smells—and when she glanced to the north, the white peaks of the Jeralls seemed to be looming directly overhead. It suddenly struck her how high up they really were—and just how much further she had to go.

“First time in Bruma?” the elderly woman seated beside her ventured with a smile, which she tentatively returned.

“Yes, ma’am.” She glanced around at their surroundings again, then back to the woman. “It’s amazing, it’s…” She shook her head and the woman chuckled.

“Ah, I remember leaving my home hold for the first time,” she laughed. “Of course that was quite a long time ago.” For a moment, a flicker of nostalgia drifted across her face. “Are you staying here long?”

Monica shook her head. “Just for the night,” she said quickly. “Then I’m off to Skyrim in the morning.”

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “Not a lot of time to see the sights, then.” She squinted up at the sun. “You still have some time to explore, though. I’d recommend saving the Akaviri museum for another time, but the statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil is up by the north gate, and the Chapel of the Eight is right in the center of town.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Although it used to be the Great Chapel of Talos,” she hissed, and Monica cringed at the mention of the false god, although she forced herself to nod politely. The venom that had crept into the woman’s otherwise-kindly demeanor also sent a chill down her spine, but then the woman’s smile returned as she changed the subject.

“Do you know where you’re staying?” she asked, and Monica reached for her belt, where the itinerary Guinevere had written for her was tucked alongside her other papers.

“Elle’s Tap and Tack,” she read, but the woman frowned.

“Are you dead set on that?” she asked. “For five septims more you could go up the hill to the Three-Eyed Raven. It’s rumored to be haunted, if you believe in that sort of thing, but for what it’s worth, it’s probably your better option. I know Elle, and she’s a good woman, but the place caters mostly to mercenary types. It’s pretty rough.” The woman grimaced. “Actually, the entire south side of the city is rough. I’d stay away from it if I were you.” It did sound like a better idea, and five septims more wasn’t much, but Guinevere was already twenty septims poorer than she could afford to be.

“I think I’ll stick with my plans,” Monica said, touching the coinpurse for what was probably the fiftieth time that day, “but thank you. For the advice, and for the recommendations.” The carriage had rolled to a stop, and the driver was calling for passengers to disembark.

“Of course, dear,” the woman said as they began collecting their belongings. “Enjoy your stay.” As she stood, her cloak shifted, and Monica caught sight of a flash of steel at her side. Her eyes widened, her stare following the woman as she hurried over toward a man with a heavy beard shot with silver who was calling her “Ma.” She shook her head as she climbed down from the carriage herself, shouldering her pack and joining the throng of other passengers drifting in the direction of the city gates. Less than a day since she left home, and she’d already met a Talos-worshiper—who was also a little old lady toting a massive sword, no less. What a strange place this was.

As soon as she stepped inside the city gates, she once again felt the breath sucked from her lungs. It lacked the quaint, picturesque beauty of Chorrol, but Bruma was downright impressive. Built into the mountainside, it was structured so that several stone tiers ran the length of the city, with the buildings lining the edges. In a way, the imposing stone walls reminded her of home, but the resemblance ended there. The rugged logs that made up the buildings were nothing like Battlehorn’s even stone and neat timbers.

According to the maps Guinevere had packed for her, Elle’s Tap and Tack was just inside the gates. She spotted it almost immediately, but as she approached, the door was abruptly flung open, and a cluster of figures stumbled out, laughing loudly and clearly drunk. She froze in her tracks, staring at the spectacle the woman in the carriage had warned her about. _Five septims…_ She touched the coinpurse. But then one of the drunks vomited, his friends shouting and hooting louder than ever. Shuddering, she turned and headed up the hill. At this point, the price would be worth it.

The Three-Eyed Raven, according to the map, was on the first ledge, down at the end of the street. But multiple sets of stone stairs providing access to the street below had been cut into the ledge, and she was forced to carefully pick her way around them. She vaguely wondered if that was even safe, thinking of how icy the stairs to the battlements at home got in the winter. But she arrived at the door soon enough, swinging it open on soundless hinges and stepping into the cool dimness.

The publican took her coin and showed her to a spacious room on the lower underground level before pointing her in the direction of the Champion of Cyrodiil’s statue. However, as she stood gazing up at the stone likeness, Monica was not particularly impressed by it. It was located on the highest level, overlooking the rooftops of the city. It was the quietest area of the city so far, and she wondered if it was due to the fact that the gates to the castle loomed just down the street. But it wasn’t just the eerie desertion—it was the Champion’s likeness itself, austere and unyielding as it stared coldly over the city. The unease was sending shivers down her spine, and she nervously backed away, turning south down the street. She’d passed the chapel on her way to the inn, but it couldn’t hurt to take a closer look.

But the sense of disquiet that had settled over her didn’t fade away as she approached the Chapel of the Eight. Maybe it was due to the surprisingly chilly breeze blowing through the city, or maybe it was the words of the woman from the carriage. _Talos_. She silently repeated the name to herself. The Emperor who had united all of Tamriel, but upon death had been revered as a god, due to mankind’s folly and hubris. She had read _The Talos Mistake_ in her lessons a child. Every young person in Battlehorn had. Her parents had simply nodded when she mentioned it, and urged her to finish her homework.

There was something else, though, something prickling at the corners of her memory. She’d been in bed, trying to sleep, but all the while hearing her father’s angry voice from the kitchen. There’d been her mother’s hushed whispers as she tried to quiet him down, and his voice would drop, only to flare back up again. And during the peaks of the crescendos, she was certain she’d heard the name “Talos.”

But it’d been a long time ago. She shook her head as she turned to retreat to the Three-Eyed Raven. She’d been planning on going into the chapel and saying a prayer for safety on her journey, but the sun had nearly disappeared, and it really was downright cold now. She shivered as she skittered along the hazardous street, thinking of the Jeralls’ white peaks. Perhaps her mother had been right about the cloak.

* * *

 

Monica wasn’t sure she believed in ghosts. At home, the fact that raiding season occurred twice a year meant that people died sometimes, she had certainly never seen any of them lurking around the castle. But even though she was doubtful of the woman’s claims that the Three-Eyed Raven was haunted, she still found it surprisingly difficult to sleep. The inn was full of unfamiliar sounds, from footsteps clattering overhead to the hum of voices out in the hallway, and often these would occur just as she was teetering on the edge wakefulness, startling her from her almost-slumber and leaving her to toss and turn and punch her pillow for the next hour. And when sleep found her at last, her dreams were filled with shadowy not-quite deities and voices from the past.

When she finally awoke, she was disoriented by the pitch blackness. Since their quarters were underground, Guinevere always left a torch burning low out in the hall so they’d at least have a faint light to rise by in the morning; she’d never let it go out. Then she remembered where she was, and reached out to light her bedside candle, hands fumbling in the dark. As the candle flared to life, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned across the nightstand to squint at the clock sitting there. As her foggy brain registered the placement of the hands, she let out a gasp, eyes springing wide with panic as she leapt out of bed.

Quarter to eight. It was a quarter to eight, and the carriage across the Jeralls was leaving in fifteen minutes. She grabbed for yesterday’s dress, yanking it over her head as she jammed her feet into her shoes. Her hair was a wild tangle sticking up in every direction, but that would have to wait. Sweeping the rest of her belongings into her pack, she slung it over her shoulder and raced upstairs, calling something to the innkeeper about leaving the candle burning as she stumbled out the front door.

Bruma’s morning air was brisk, and she shivered slightly as she hurried along. She could still make it, she thought desperately. She could. She _had_ to. As she approached the gates, her hand went to her belt—an increasingly habitual gesture. The coinpurse, and—

Her heart froze with a jolt, and she immediately spun around in her tracks, spitting out a string of curses the likes of which she’d never before uttered, the kind she’d only ever heard Dunmeri sailors use. The pouch containing her travel documents was gone—she’d left it on top of the dresser back at the inn. She broke into a run, sprinting along faster than she ever had in her life. As she skittered around the stair breaks, pedestrians dodged out of her way, muttering curses of their own. The innkeeper let out a gasp as she barreled through the doors of the Three-Eyed Raven, sending one bouncing off the wall. She shouted an apology as she dashed down the stairs, bursting into the now-dark room she’d occupied the night before and groping along the top of the dresser. When her hand closed around leather, she snagged it and sprinted back out.

But as she ran along, the chapel bells began to toll, marking the hour. She’d now officially missed the carriage. But it _could_ be running late, though, she thought, picking up speed. Her legs pounded out a furious rhythm, her chest burning and her lungs screaming for air. Miraculously, the guard already had the gates open for a traveler entering the city, and she hurtled past him through the gap.

Her vision began to swim as she closed the distance to the stables, but as she approached, she managed to make out a wagon filled with passengers, the driver just about to climb up into his seat. Relief coursed through her veins, and she let out a breathless laugh as she staggered up to it. “Wait!” she cried out desperately, and the driver paused.

“Yeah?” He frowned as she stumbled to a stop, doubling over and planting her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath.

“I’m not too late, am I?” she wheezed. “I have my fare—I have it right here.” She grasped at her coinpurse, but when she glanced up at the driver, he was staring at her doubtfully.

“The fare?” he asked. “You must be looking for the eight o’clock to Whiterun.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Already left.”

Her spasming lungs forgotten, she jerked up to full height. “Seriously?” She could feel tears of frustration springing to her eyes as the driver nodded. “When will the next one be?” she asked shakily, trying very hard to keep her tone even. Crying wouldn’t solve anything. She had to stay calm, find a solution.

The driver only shrugged. “Beats me. Another week?” he ventured. “I don’t work for public transportation. I was only hired to take these good folks to their summer trapping grounds.” He pointed to the wagon, and for the first time she took a good look at its occupants. Rough-looking men and women in worn leather and ragged fur stared back at her—some of which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she’d seen outside Elle’s Tap and Tack last night.

“Throat of the World, darlin’!” one of them shouted out, and the others chuckled. “Only place in Tamriel where the good pelts start coming in by Hearthfire.” A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she turned to the driver.

“You’re crossing the Jeralls, then?” she asked eagerly.

“That’s right.” He nodded, and she swallowed hard as she gathered her courage.

“Can I come with you?” she asked. The driver’s eyebrows shot up, his expression as indignant as if she’d asked for his firstborn child.

“Can you come with us?” he repeated. “This isn’t public transportation—what part of that don’t you understand?” The trappers burst into uproarious laughter, and Monica’s face flamed in embarrassment. She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again, but she doggedly persisted. _For Aventus._

“I can pay,” she said quickly. “I have the money.” She held out her coinpurse, but the driver’s eyes narrowed.

“Thing is, I made a contract with these good folks to drop them in Ivarstead. And that’s not anywhere near Whiterun. I’d have to go out of my way. Wouldn’t be good for business, you see.” He shook his head as she blinked back the tears, but one of the trappers suddenly spoke up.

“Eh, come on, Eran,” he shouted. “Just drop her at Helgen. She can find her way from there.”

“Yeah, come on, can we just get going?” another added in.

The driver sighed. “Look I can’t let just anyone on,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but I _do_ know the penalty for transporting fugitives across borders.”

“I have my papers,” she insisted, tugging open the pouch she still clutched and handing the papers over. “I’m an Imperial citizen. I have no bounty. It’s perfectly legal for me to travel between provinces.”

The driver skimmed over them for a moment, his eyes flashing over the lines of the Imperial scribe’s neat handwriting. Then he handed them back, heaving another long sigh. “Fine,” he relented, and she felt herself breaking into a small smile of triumph. “A hundred septims.”

Her smile fell, and for the first time she felt a flash of irritation. “A hundred?” she asked incredulously. “But the standard fare’s only seventy-five!”

The driver crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m doing you a favor here,” he said sharply. “Besides, you’re going to use up supplies—supplies I hadn’t counted on losing. Supplies I’ll have to replace.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or you can wait until next week. Your choice.” Another week of inn and food costs, and she wouldn’t be able to afford to make it to Riften and back.

“Fine.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she quietly fished out the amount and handed it over. The driver jabbed a finger at the wagon as he swung into his seat.

“Hurry up and get in,” he ordered. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

* * *

 

The trappers’ stares were intent on her as the wagon slowly lurched up the mountain, relentless even as she self-consciously sat staring at her folded hands in her lap. They were probably harmless, but they still put her in mind of bandits—a fact that made her exceptionally nervous. On top of it, she had a knot of guilt gnawing at her stomach as she thought about how much money she’d wasted in the past two days. If only she had just stayed at Elle’s. That single lapse in judgment had ultimately cost her thirty septims, and now she was stuck for three days with the very people she’d been trying to avoid. Even as they joked amongst themselves, their eyes never left her, and the journey quickly turned into a test of nerves as she willed herself not to squirm beneath their gaze.

That night, the driver loaned her an extra bedroll, and she was crowded into a tent along with two other women—one who snored loudly and another who talked and thrashed about in her sleep. In addition, the ground was hard and it was _cold_. At dawn, she crawled out of the tent into the bone-chilling air, bundled in her cloak. Every muscle in her body ached as she dragged herself across the campsite to the fire, where she tried in vain to warm her numb, purple fingertips. As the trappers disassembled the camp, she gnawed on a stale piece of the bread she’d swiped from the Battlehorn kitchens, and then they were on the road again.

They hadn’t been travelling for long—perhaps only an hour or two—when the driver suddenly let out a curse, slowing the wagon to a stop. The trappers were instantly on their feet and leaning out of the wagon, attention captured by something in the road ahead. Monica remained seated but craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening through several bodies’ worth of armor. “Is there a problem here?” the driver was asking. Glancing upward, she saw several dark plumes of smoke staining the pale blue sky. An encampment of some sort—were they being robbed? She suddenly remembered the driver pocketing her coin, and her heart began to race. If they’d been stopped by bandits…

But although the reply the driver was receiving bore a hint of menace, it was entirely civil. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need to turn this wagon around right now,” a commanding voice ordered.

“Why?” the driver demanded, his tone quickly developing an edge. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m sorry, but the pass is closed. Please turn the wagon around and return to Cyrodiil.” This time there was a warning in the voice. A grumble of dissent rose up from the trappers, and Monica twisted around in her seat, leaning as far out as she dared in attempt to see past them.

“Closed?” the driver demanded in a rising voice. “I have a contract to fulfill, dammit!”

“Sir.” There was a rasp of metal. “I’m giving you five minute to get turned around and start heading down this mountain, or there _will_ be repercussions.” The trappers’ murmurs erupted into a cacophony of shouts, and there was a rippling in the pack of them as one suddenly broke free and charged past Monica, leaping off the back of the wagon.

“ _Hey!_ ” he roared. “I have a _livelihood_ to make, godsdammit! I got three kids and a fourth on the way—how am I supposed to feed them?” His face was scarlet, throbbing veins standing out.

“Stand down, civilian!” Monica drew in a breath as the figure giving the order came into view. She’d know Legion armor anywhere. Her father’s set still stood on a mannequin beside her mother’s bed.

“He’s right!”

“Same here!”

“Imperial bastards!”

The rest of the trappers joined in, the wagon jostling violently as they all charged out of it to stand beside their companion. Several other soldiers came running to stand beside their leader. “ _Stand down, civilians!_ ” he shouted, and there was a sudden metallic chorus as the rest of the soldiers also drew their weapons. “Or I swear, you’ll all be under arrest!”

At that Monica dove off the seat, hunkering down beneath the opposite row. Her view of the scene unfolding beside the wagon was blocked, but she could still hear everything: the trappers arguing, the soldiers threatening to arrest them, the driver screaming for them to get back in their seats. This was bad, she realized, this was very bad. In a matter of minutes, at best they’d be in the wagon headed back to Bruma, at worst the confrontation would turn violent. Terror welled up in her, but she struggled to think, to organize her thoughts into something coherent.

If the pass was closed, she’d have to find some other way into Skyrim, and that would likely mean going through Morrowind. By the time she made it back to Battlehorn, there’d be just a little over half of Guinevere’s savings remaining—not enough for a whole other trip. And while they were saving up the difference—however long that would take—Aventus would be growing up in that orphanage, feeling abandoned, thinking his only family had forgotten him…

The Legion officer was still screaming, but the shouts of the trappers were dying down. She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back against the edge of the seat. There’d be no turning back from what she was about to do. Divines help her.

She lightly sprang from the back of the wagon, keeping low as she dashed toward an outcropping of rock, the hem of her cloak brushing along the ground. Darting around it, she pressed her back against the cold stone, trying to slow her breathing as the sounds of the conflict continued. Crossing the Jeralls on foot was a decidedly foolhardy idea, but it was the height of summer. If ever there were a time for it, it would be now. She had enough food to last a day or two—three if she _really_ rationed it. As long as she held a brisk pace and kept moving, she could make it to that town the driver had mentioned—Helgen—within a few days.

This was illegal, though, she reminded herself, not to mention incredibly stupid. For half an instant, some protective impulse of cowardice reared its head, and she considered darting back to the wagon. But her thoughts turned back to Aventus, and her resolve hardened. She quietly pushed off the rock and began to weave through the gaps, never looking back once.

* * *

 

The sounds of the conflict faded behind her as she slowly made her way up the mountain. The landscape was rugged, jagged spires of earth, but she found the way through cold, unthawed valleys of stone, areas where the sunlight could never manage to entirely reach. Her ears were attentive, constantly listening for sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing. The silence was downright eerie: there were no birds or animals, only the occasional gust of wind whistling past and the quiet crunch of her footsteps.

She’d hit the snow no more than an hour after she’d left the checkpoint behind. When she’d first caught sight of it, she’d actually stopped in her tracks and stared in amazement. Snow in Last Seed! Despite her now-soaked shoes and socks, a grin made its way across her face as she trekked forward. She’d always loved snow. When she was young, she and Heidmir would spill out into the courtyard at the first snow of the year, making forts and starting snowball fights with the other children.

As dusk approached and vegetation began to reappear, she found the road again. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she hurried forward toward it. The fear that she’d end up lost on the mountain and end up freezing or starving to death had begun nagging at the back of her mind several hours back. But when she saw the wagon tracks cutting through the otherwise pristine snow, she retreated back into the trees. Someone had been through here recently, and she wasn’t about to get caught crossing a border illegally.

But she was curious about the source of the tracks. Had the trappers’ wagon been let through after all? Had it somehow gotten ahead of her as she’d clambered across the crags? But then she remembered the carriage she’d missed. With stronger horses and a lighter load, they could have easily gotten far ahead of the trappers—which meant the pass had to have _just_ been closed. Once again, she cursed her decision to stay at the Three-Eyed Raven as she hurried through the trees, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

She slept under a massive pine that night, in a tiny bare area of space where the snow had been unable to filter through the boughs. The wind’s whistles continued through the night, and she was constantly stirring, only to bury her head back inside her cloak and try desperately to think of something _warm_.

When dawn finally arrived, she awoke with the sun, shaking a coating of frost from the folds of her cloak before resuming her trek down the mountainside. When she looked behind her, she could already see the massive peaks towering high in the distance. She’d made some significant progress the day before, she noted with a tinge of pride. She was slower on foot, but maybe she was closer than she thought. Perhaps she’d even make it to that town—Helgen, the driver had called it—before the day was up.

“Hold it right there.”

The sound of a human voice, entirely unexpected after so many hours of isolation, shocked her to the core, eliciting a gasp of fear as she whipped around, searching for the source. She caught sight of a flash of blue—right as she came face to face with the jagged barb of a readied arrow.


	4. Bear Country

For a moment, Monica was too petrified by the arrow in her face to even think of its wielder. Then it registered that there was someone standing behind the bow about to release the string—yet hadn’t done so yet.

“Please don’t shoot me.” Her voice was husky with fear as she slowly lifted her trembling hands in a gesture of surrender. “Please don’t.”

“What are you doing here?” At the sound of her assailant’s voice, her gaze flickered to the man behind the bow. His hair was grimy and his face was streaked with dirt, but although his armor was worn, the wide blue sash across it seemed to indicate a uniform of some sort. He clearly wasn’t a bandit, and at that, she relaxed slightly.

“Are you a guard?” she asked. “Is Helgen nearby?” She began to lower her hands, but there was a soft scraping sound, and she let out a strangled gasp of terror as her head was roughly yanked back and she felt the cold bite of steel at her throat.

“Best answer the question.” The voice in her ear was low and dangerous, and she quickly choked out a reply.

“Helgen! I’m just trying to get to Helgen!” she yelped, trying to remain perfectly still. “They said I could get to Whiterun from there!”

“‘They?’” The voice grew sharper. “Who’s ‘they?’”

“The trappers.” Her throat suddenly felt incredibly dry, but she didn’t dare swallow. “The trappers I crossed the mountain with.”

“Igor?” the woman asked.

“There’s a set of wagon tracks, a couple days old.” Another figure appeared to the left of her field of vision, and she instinctively turned her head in that direction—only to let out a hiss of pain as the blade at her throat broke through flesh. “Other than that, nothing.”

“Figured as much.” The pain at her neck worsened as the woman pressed the blade deeper. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to give the _real_ reason you’re up here, or I send you straight to Sovngarde.”

She was serious, Monica realized. She was actually serious. As the dread began to pump through her veins, she miserably realized that she was caught. How could she have been so stupid, as to think that she could actually just slip across the border and get away with it? If she confessed, she’d be arrested, and there’d be no hope for reclaiming Aventus. But if she didn’t…

“I...the trappers, we…” She nervously licked her lips. Her mother was going to be so angry—and disappointed.

“Spit it out,” snarled the archer.

“They never made it over the mountain,” she blurted out. “The pass was closed, and when they challenged the soldiers, I…I snuck through on foot.” She braced herself, but was met only with silence.

“The pass is closed?” The woman holding the blade to her neck repeated the words, astonishment creeping through her tone. The blade suddenly disappeared, and the woman grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face her. “Why?” she demanded.

Monica blinked. “I don’t know,” she admitted. There was something about the woman’s reaction that was distinctly unsettling. Maybe it was the glint in her eye, or maybe the fact that she hadn’t said a word about her illegal border crossing. Either way, it made her skin crawl.

“Jyta?” Igor asked. Jyta’s gaze didn’t move from Monica’s as she pursed her lips.

“You might be useful,” she said finally. She nodded, and Igor stepped forward and pulled Monica’s pack from her shoulders, tugging open the top and glancing inside. Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Jyta brandished her dagger, and she shrank back. “Turn around and start walking. Try anything, and I _will_ kill you. Understand?”

Monica could only nod, her head bobbing helplessly as Igor and the archer whose name she still didn’t know moved up to flank her on either side. She lifted trembling fingers to neck, staring as they came away slick with blood.

“Hey.” And she froze as she felt a prick, just to the right of her spine. “I said move.”

Her legs quivered as she stumbled forward, her stomach lurching at the thought of the blade piercing her spine. Jyta would bury the dagger in her back if she made a single wrong move, she just knew it. The knowledge had calcified along her bones, leaving them brittle with fear. And a tiny, wise voice she hadn’t known she possessed whispered inside her head, informing her of the truth she wasn’t ready to face: that these soldiers were not operating under Imperial law. Whatever fears she’d had about setting out on her own, this was much, much worse.

* * *

 

They walked on. Somehow she managed to keep herself upright and moving forward, and Jyta’s blade hadn’t plunged into her back—yet. She felt numb, though; all her senses were dulled as though her fear were a great lake she was drowning in. Every ounce of her energy was entirely devoted to keeping slow and steady as possible. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her consciousness, it vaguely occurred to her to pray—to Stendarr, that these soldiers would show mercy; to Mara, that they would feel even the faintest hint of compassion; to Zenithar, that she could somehow make them understand she bore no threat; to Julianos, that she would have the wits to make it through this situation. But if her attention wavered—even for a moment—she knew she would falter, and Jyta would kill her. So she remained silent, gravely focusing on each next step.

Presently, a whiff of wood smoke wafted through her fog, and her gaze rose from the ground in front of her to catch a flutter of movement through the trees. As they emerged into a clearing, she realized that they were in a camp of some sort, filled with weary-looking men and women outfitted in the same armor as her captors. She jumped as Jyta grumbled something out, but quickly realized it was an order of some kind as the unnamed archer took a firm grip on her arm, while Jyta stalked forward to meet a figure by the fire.

“Found something for you,” she called out. The other woman rose to her feet, staring suspiciously in Monica’s direction.

“What’s this?” she asked sharply. Jyta, too, turned to stare at her.

“Found her up in the mountains. Claims she crossed over with some trappers, but…” Jyta suddenly leaned in closer, and her voice dropped too low to understand. The other woman continued to stare, her deepening frown giving Monica a sick feeling in her stomach. Jyta finally finished, and the woman stepped towards Monica, her gaze never once faltering.

“You’re right,” she said, lips pursed in a thin line. “I don’t like it.” She sighed, and finally turned back to Jyta. “Put her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Not all the scouts are back yet, and he’s going to want to deal with this himself.” Jyta nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.” She strode back over, producing a length of rope, and before Monica could react, grabbed hold of her hands and wound the rope around them.

“You—you don’t have to, there’s really no need…” Monica began desperately, but Jyta silenced her with a look.

“Be quiet.” She yanked the knot taut, and Monica winced, stumbling as Jyta hauled her towards a nearby tree. “Stay here,” she ordered, pushing her down beneath it. Kneeling beside her, she set to work on her feet. “Don’t move and don’t say a word. She’ll be watching you,” she pointed toward the woman she’d spoken to, “and believe me when I say this.” She leaned forward menacingly. “No one in this camp will hesitate to kill you if you try to make a run for it. Understand?”

No, Monica wanted to protest. She didn’t understand at all. None of this made any sense and she was terrified out of her wits and she just wanted to go _home._ But Jyta was staring at her, awaiting a response, so she meekly nodded, slipping her gaze down into her lap.

“Good.” Jyta abruptly stood. “Remember: _don’t move_ ,” she warned, and then her boots trod out of sight.

* * *

 

Hours passed, and Monica didn’t move. The bark of the tree behind her was rough, jabbing her through the fabric of her dress, and with her hands bound it was nearly impossible to maneuver into a more comfortable position—at least without looking like she was trying to make a break for it. They really _were_ always watching her, she noticed when she finally dared to look up and cautiously glance around the camp. There were no blatant stares, like there’d been from the trappers, but still, there was always someone with an eye on her.

As the sun moved across the sky and her sheer terror from earlier faded to a heavy sense of dread, she wracked her brain for all possible reasons why they might have taken her. It wasn’t the border crossing—that much she’d figured out a long while ago. The soldiers had been wary—hostile, even—but even through her fright, she’d noticed something change in Jyta’s demeanor when she’d mention the pass. She sighed and leaned her head back against the tree.  Who _were_ these soldiers, anyway? Locals, clearly—they definitely weren’t Legion, and she didn’t recognize the blue sashes they wore as a uniform. They appeared to be mostly Nords, as far as she could tell, although she’d thought she spotted a Redguard a while back. But something was off about them—not just that they’d kidnapped her, but how shabby and on-edge they seemed. And as she watched them, she began to recognize certain mannerisms—ones she herself kept catching herself falling into. Their postures, their heads snapping up at even the slightest of sounds, their hands constantly on their weapons: these people were afraid. But _why?_ She sighed again, bracing against the tree as she dragged her legs up under her. That, she realized grimly, was the real question here.

The archer brought her a cup of water late in the afternoon, but other than that, activity in the camp gradually slowed to a lull. It was late in the evening, after the sky had gone black when her ears finally picked up the sound of voices again. There seemed to be a flicker of torchlight at the far end of the camp, and she sat up straighter, straining to see. Several figures were assembled there at the other campfire, their voices carrying across the clearing, but not their words. After a few moments, the gathering broke apart, some dispersing into the tents but others heading in the direction of her tree. As they drew nearer, she recognized more of the now-familiar blue sashes—but the figure in the middle was dressed in civilian clothing, his hands bound together as hers were.

She stared as they brought him closer, but her attention wasn’t necessarily captured by the fact that he, too, was a prisoner. It was the sharp features, the elongated ears, the shadowy skin: the new arrival was a Dunmer. Her gaze dropped to her lap as they reached the tree, but she stole another quick glance up. Lord Adlen had been a Dunmer, and so had several of the sailors on that long-ago journey as a child, but elves of any kind were rare in Battlehorn these days.

One of the soldiers shoved the Dunmer down beside her, looming above him while the other bound his feet. With his back to the fire, Monica couldn’t make out his face, but his grin was practically radiating off of him. “Don’t try anything now, grey-skin,” he taunted, then paused. “Or better yet. Go ahead and make my day.” He chuckled as he sauntered back to the fire, and the prisoner spat something at him in Dunmeri—a phrase she recognized, and for a brief moment a smile twitched across her lips.

Alone in the darkness with a stranger, however, the fear that had been fading to an ache over the past several hours began to sharpen again. She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down at her hands. It suddenly occurred to her that he might not have been mistakenly seized—what if he really was some kind of criminal?

“So.” There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and she jumped, her head whipping in his direction. He was staring at her, and by the dim distant light of the fire, she could just make out his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Pale skin. Snotty expression,” he said thoughtfully. She met his stare with a blank face, bewildered, and his frown deepened. Then his expression smoothed out, his lips curling up into a smile. “You’re a Breton,” he said triumphantly.

It was her turn for her brow to crease into a frown. His thoughtful expression returned, and without warning, he shifted closer. She inadvertently shrank away, but his head was still inches from her ear. “Got any parlor tricks that might get us out of this?” he muttered.

Parlor tricks? Like _magic_? She shifted guiltily at that. She was no mage by any means, but there had been quite a few hedgewitches at Battlehorn—all of them more than willing to share some of their knowledge with an overeager twelve-year-old. She flexed her fingers at the memory, but her hands had long since lost circulation, and she didn’t even feel the power coursing through them until it was too late. Even she jumped as the flash of sparks ignited between her fingers, jerking back and cracking her head against the tree.

“ _Hey!_ ” The angry voice came from the direction of the fire, and her head snapped up to see the soldiers watching, one of them rising from his place. “What’s going on over there?”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over.” Her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, but to her surprise, the Dunmer shouted back. “We’re having ourselves a real wonderful time over here.”

The soldier muttered a muffled curse. “Don’t make me come over there, grey-skin,” he warned, but he sat back down again, turning to his companions once more.

Monica exhaled a shaky breath of relief at the close call, but the Dunmer was poorly attempting to hold back his chuckles. “Now there’s an idea; burning the whole place to the ground. Although it might be nice if we weren’t at the center of it.” She finally turned to face him, and his face widened into a broad grin. “Name’s Romlyn Dreth, by the way.”

He certainly _seemed_ harmless enough. At any rate, they were in the same boat, and it couldn’t hurt to have someone to talk to. She tentatively returned the smile. “Monica Aretino,” she finally replied. “And I’m not a Breton.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “You’re no Nord, that’s for certain. Imperial, then?” At her nod, he chuckled, breaking into another grin.

“But you were partially right,” she suddenly blurted out. “My grandfather was a Breton.” She paused, glancing upwards at the night sky, but when she glanced back to Romlyn, he was still watching her, an intent expression on his face. “I never met him, though,” she continued, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hadn’t meant to start babbling about her family history to a total stranger, but it was such a trite conversation, and at the moment, trite was good. Trite was _normal_. “He died in the war. A lot of people did, I suppose, but still…” She shrugged—a difficult gesture with her hands bound in her lap.

Romlyn exhaled, tilting his head back against the tree. “I knew a few who did,” he remarked. “I doubt you’re old enough to remember, but not many were untouched by the war. Everybody lost somebody.” His frown returned. “Something _this_ lot can’t seem to remember,” he added sourly.

At that comment, it was her turn to shift forward curiously. “Romlyn,” she asked in a low voice, glancing nervously toward the fire. “Who _are_ they anyway?”

His expression morphed into one of surprise. “The Stormcloaks?” he asked dubiously. His confusion had turned wary. “Formerly the guard force of Windhelm, but becoming more of an army every day. They say Ulfric Stormcloak is looking for war, and if things keep going the way they have been, he just might find it.”

That was a name she recognized. The letter informing them of Naalia’s death had been written on his behalf. Her confusion must have been evident, as Romlyn clarified further. “You know that the High King was killed?” The courier _had_ mentioned it to Guinevere: political troubles, a dead king…

For the first time, tension filled Romlyn’s face as he, too, glanced toward the fire. “It was Ulfric that killed him,” he whispered. “Some folks say it was an honorable duel, other say it was murder. Whatever the case, near everyone’s choosing a side. Like I said. War’s coming.” He sighed, scuffling his bound feet in the dirt. “’Course, the Legion outnumbers them in a major way, and they’ve gotten real jumpy as a result. This is the thirdtime they’ve held me up in the past couple months,” he added disgustedly. “It’s a sad day when providing honest folks with mead for cheap gets you treated like a criminal.”

“They captured you for selling cheap mead?” That sounded almost as ludicrous as her own situation. But Romlyn sat up straighter, indignation flashing across his face.

“Not cheap mead!” he protested hotly. “I’m selling good mead for cheap!”

“Shut up over there!” yelled one of the soldiers. Romlyn rolled his eyes, but dropped his volume.

“I work for Black-Briar Meadery, you see,” he continued in a half-whisper. “A word of advice: don’t ever pay for it outright. It’s good, but not that good. Horribly overpriced.” He shook his head ruefully. “So I sell cases of it for half of what inns and taverns pay through the Meadery.” His tone brightened. “Everybody wins.”

“And that’s why they took you?” she asked. He shook his head.

“No, they took me because I crossed paths with their patrols. Like I said. They’re jumpy, and it happens. Third delivery I’ve lost, though.” His gaze turned scrutinizing, as he began to look her over for the first time. “What about you? Same problem, I’m guessing?”

She hesitated. “I…I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper. “I…did something stupid, and I _thought_ they were arresting me for it, only…” She quickly relayed the details of her impromptu border crossing, but by the time she finished, Romlyn was shaking his head, once again quietly snickering to himself.

“They don’t care. Trust me, anything short of killing or stealing from one of their own don’t matter to them. It was the notion of having their location given away that got to them.”

“Well, I know _now_ ,” she protested. “They could have just sent me on my way and I’d have never known. What if they _don’t_ let us go?”

Romlyn sighed. “Here’s how this works,” he stated, finality ringing in his tone. “In the morning they’ll blindfold us and march us out of the camp, and then they’ll leave us somewhere on the road. By noon, we’ll both be out of here and on our separate ways.” He settled back against the tree. “Might as well try and sleep as best you can,” he suggested, shifting his gaze sideways to her. “Staying awake won’t make the wait go by any faster.”

But morning came and went, and by the time the sun was solidly in the west, Monica and Romlyn were still tied beneath the tree in the Stormcloak camp. And as she grew more nervous, Romlyn seemed to grow more impatient. “Stop that,” he hissed, as Monica once again began straining against her bonds. Her wrists were already chafed and raw beneath them, but the urge to break free of them was only growing stronger, boiling just below her skin.

“You said they’d let us go,” she whispered back, dropping her hands back down to her lap in defeat. “Why are we still here?”

Romlyn rolled his eyes. “I don’t know,” he growled through gritted teeth. “They will, though. They always do.” She sighed, once more eyeing her hands. “Hey.” He nudged her with a foot. “Tell me about this cousin of yours again. You sure you can handle him?”

“What?” Momentarily distracted, she shifted her gaze over to Romlyn.

“You sure you can handle him?” he repeated. “You said he was ten, right? Ten-year-olds are little monsters, you know. You think he’ll take kindly to a long-lost relative showing up and dragging him off to another province? He’ll be leaving everything he’s ever known.”

“But he already left it all months ago,” she protested. “He’s in an orphanage, remember? I’d imagine that _anything_ would be better than that.” She chewed on her lip, suddenly worried. “Besides, he seemed nice enough in his letters. And Aunt Naalia would have raised him right. I’m sure of it.” She was halfway through reiterating every piece of information she had on Aventus when she realized she hadn’t been tugging at her bonds the entire time. She paused as she glanced down at her hands, briefest hint of a grim smile flickering across her face. Divines bless Romlyn. But he was recounting all the mischief he’d gotten into behind his parents’ backs when he was a child, and she quickly jumped to counter the argument.

* * *

 

By the time dusk arrived, they had both fallen silent. She barely even had the energy to be afraid anymore—much less carry on a conversation. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before, and despite Romlyn’s advice, she’d been unable to manage sleep. Every muscle in her body was stiff and aching, her wrists stung, and her head felt liked it’d been wrapped in cotton. Romlyn, too, was slumped against the tree, head bowed. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed, but she hoped he’d fallen asleep again. At least one of them should get some rest. But despite her heightened nerves, her exhaustion began to overtake her, and her head finally drooped toward her chest. She was just grasping at the faintest reaches of sleep when the shouts unceremoniously wrenched her back.

She sat bolt upright, heart thundering as the volume reached the roar of a mob. Romlyn had sat up, too, motionless as he stared across the campsite at the gathering. “Shut up!” someone was bellowing, voice rising above the rest as the command was repeated. The crowd died down to an angry murmur, and then abruptly parted, several figures jostling their way through.

“Azura preserve us.” Romlyn’s low murmur was barely audible above the noise of the soldiers, but when she turned to him, he was staring straight ahead, his facial muscles gone as stiff as stone.

“What is it?” she hissed, but Romlyn didn’t look at her. The fading light may have been playing tricks on her eyes, but his face seemed to have blanched several shades paler.

“It’s Ulfric.” He was staring at the approaching figures, and her gaze quickly flitted over to them as well.

“The _jarl?_ ” One of them, she noted, lacked the typical Stormcloak armor, instead clad all in black. Was it really the ruler of Eastmarch? But Romlyn sucked in a sharp breath, and she turned back to him.

“If he’s here…” Romlyn had been so unperturbed by the ordeal, but for the first time, his certainty seemed to waver. “Listen,” he whispered hoarsely as the soldiers drew nearer. “Don’t say a word. Don’t even look at them. Just sit tight and keep quiet, all right?” She couldn’t voice her agreement, however, as the soldiers were upon them, stopping merely yards away.

“You swore an oath,” the jarl growled, shoving another figure to the ground—a figure wearing Legion armor.

“I had no choice!” the Legion soldier snapped, glaring up at the jarl. “What did you expect? This has gone too far, Ulfric. Even you have to see that.”

“All I see is a man without honor,” the jarl replied coldly. “You’re a traitor, Torbik. And I only regret that I can’t give you the traitor’s death you deserve.” He had drawn a dagger, and as Monica looked on in horror, he yanked the fallen soldier up and slashed it across his throat.

She didn’t scream. Not exactly. It was more as though every breath of air in her body had suddenly been forced out, dragging sound along with it. She stared, aghast, as the body crumpled to the ground, eyes popped wide open, dark blood spurting from the grisly opening. The world was spinning, bile rising in her throat. When they’d brought Giovanni Aretino home, he’d been cold and still: features blank, eyes closed, and fatal wounds concealed by the shroud that draped him. But this man’s face was frozen in an expression of horror, as if he were still locked in combat with the world he’d just been violently ripped from.

“You _killed_ him!”

“Monica.” Romlyn’s voice sounded as though it were coming from underwater, but she paid it no mind. The man had sprawled at the jarl’s feet, dead; his unseeing eyes blankly fixed on her.

“You killed him,” she repeated, wrestling free of the dead man’s gaze and looking up at the jarl. “You _murdered_ a Legion soldier.”

“Monica, _shut up_.” She felt the impact against her ankle as Romlyn kicked her, his voice gone low and terse. But she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the jarl’s. She couldn’t even breathe.

 “I can’t believe you killed him,” she whispered, her cheeks suddenly wet.

“She’s the one.” The soldier Jyta had brought her to when they’d first arrived had stepped up beside the jarl. “The spy.”

Spy? Something deep inside her head twitched at that; it wasn’t right, she wasn’t a spy…

“Has she been interrogated?” the jarl was asking.

The woman shook her head. “I thought you’d want to handle it.”

The jarl sighed. “You were right to wait.” He motioned to another solider, who knelt and quickly sliced through the bonds at her feet. She was hauled to her feet, her legs collapsing beneath her as blood suddenly rushed back through them. Only the soldier’s grip on her arm kept her from falling flat out on the forest floor.

“She’s just a kid.” Romlyn bitterly spat the words out, and with a twinge, she realized he was referring to her. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Shut up.” One of them delivered a swift kick to Romlyn’s ribs. There was a hollow thud of impact, and she gasped as the Dunmer was knocked sideways to the ground. The haze that had been building around her suddenly shattered, and as a strength she hadn’t known she possessed surged through her, she yanked free of the soldier’s grasp and hurled herself at Romlyn’s assailant.

“Leave him alone!” She slammed into him, shoving with all her might, and caught off guard, he staggered.

“ _Fus!_ ”

The stinging pain filling her lungs came as shock. _Force_. The thought washed across her consciousness along with the dizziness, the trees that suddenly filled her vision spinning overhead. She’d fallen. Somehow, she’d fallen, but for the life of her she couldn’t place _how_.

The trees’ spinning began to slow, and the jarl’s face appeared in her vision. “You and I need to have a talk.” The soldiers once again hauled her up from the ground, their grips threatening to snap her arms, and the jarl turned to his lieutenant. “I want to find out everything she knows.”


	5. Stars' Truth

When the gods first made Mundus, they gave of themselves to create it. They gave until there was nothing left of them, and when the rest saw what had come to pass, they fled the newly-formed Mundus, tearing straight through the sky in their haste. The holes left behind in the veil of Oblivion became the stars, and ever since, those stars had kept their vigil over Nirn.

Monica lay beneath them, awash in their cold light. As the darkness soaked into her, she could nearly hear the voices of the stars. _We are here,_ they seemed to say. _We have always been here. We were forged in sorrow and grief, and we are slowly dying. We are death incarnate, and we will one day fade away._ It was her truth now, too, and her entire being throbbed with it as the stars whispered above.

But there was an echo beneath it; a foreign presence, like the rumble of the sea. She winced away from it, tried to block it out and seep into the night. Only the stars mattered now; their silent truths were her only need. But the sky around them brightened, swallowing them whole as their father himself appeared, and when his glare grew too fierce for her to bear, she was forced to turn her head away and face the source of the voice.

“You’re alive.” Romlyn loomed above her, crimson eyes glimmering with some unreadable emotion—surprise? Fear? “Praise Azura.” The relief was heavy in his words, but his voice was garbled by the pain as waves of it thrashed through her.

“They wouldn’t let me use magic,” he muttered. Her vision was swimming, but his grey face appeared to have blanched nearly the color of bone, his eyes somehow too wide, his words too deliberate. “I’m not a healer, but I know a little. I could’ve done _something…_ ” His still-bound hands reached toward her, and she flinched away when his fingers probed at the swelling beneath her eye. But it was nothing compared to the fire.

An inferno blistered across her skin, coils of heat roaring upward and leeching into her core. Her lungs were seized by it; even the fluttering of her heart felt weakened. She tried to sit up, wincing as a new pain spurted across her ribs, but Romlyn lunged forward, nearly toppling over as he blocked her movement.

“Don’t,” he ordered. He smile thinly, but even through her foggy vision, she could see the crinkle of worry across his brow.

_Is it that bad?_ She wanted to ask the question, but her lips were cracked, dryer than the walls of Battlehorn in the summer sun, and her tongue felt parched and limp in her mouth.

“No, no. Don’t cry,” Romlyn sighed. His clumsy fingers bumped against her temple as he attempted to wipe away the tears that were now spilling freely down the sides of her face. “It’s going to be all right. You’re all right.”

But it wasn’t all right. Not even close. The tears only flowed faster as recollections of the previous night forced their way through her memory. There’d been questions; questions she didn’t understand, questions she couldn’t have possibly known the answers to: names, places, events. And when she’d asserted that she didn’t know, pain had followed. Pain had continued, even after she’d given up trying to protest, even after her voice had failed her.

Her feet, she noted as she weakly tested them, had been bound again, but her hands were free, her arms slung out to the sides. The bruising covering her ribs—along with Romlyn’s interference—made it impossible to sit up, but when she twisted her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of blistered flesh.

As her stomach churned over on itself, she once again fought to find her voice. This time, the words came to her, and she forced them from her lips. “Romlyn,” she gasped out in a croaking whisper. “Romlyn, kill me.”

“What?” When she rolled her gaze back to him, his mouth was slightly gaped open as he stared at her, aghast. “Don’t say that.”

“Please kill me,” she repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Make it stop; I can’t…I can’t…”

Romlyn mumbled something she didn’t understand, his fingers catching in her hair as he idly stroked it. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, his words flat as he repeated himself. “It’ll be all right, Monica. Just…” He sighed. “Just lie still. Try not to talk.”

She wanted to object, to insist that he carry out her request. But it was too difficult to argue. Her body could no longer contain the heat; it had turned her thoughts molten, sending them dripping from her leaden tongue before they could become words. So she turned her face back to the blinding gleam of the sun, the heat slowly overtaking her. From out of sight far overhead, she could still hear the stars’ whispers.

* * *

 

She was lost for some time after that. Or perhaps not for so long, as her sense of time was slowly frayed ragged by the pain. But when her thoughts began to sharpen again, the sun no longer met her gaze. The sky overhead was a dark blue, the fading glow reminding her of firelight. She closed her eyes against it; she didn’t want to think of fire. _I touched the fire_ , she thought dizzily. _I touched the heat itself and it_ screamed _, it begged for mercy…_ Only, she suddenly realized, _she_ had been the one to scream. She set her teeth against the memory, but the flames didn’t disappear; how could they, when they still danced beneath her skin?

Something touched her shoulder, and her eyes snapped open as she flinched away. Romlyn appeared above her, raising his bound hands to press a single finger to his lips. Panic immediately rushed through her, with such force that it momentarily washed away the pain. Ulfric, she thought hysterically, Ulfric was coming back for her. Dread was a fist to her stomach, but Romlyn was speaking, his lips barely moving. “Can you move?”

She stared back at in silence, petrified, and his eyes narrowed. “This is our chance,” he hissed. “You have to move.”

Move? They couldn’t move, they’d be killed on the spot… Her confusion growing, she opened her mouth to reply when it happened. A shout, a clash of metal—and then an explosion of sound erupted from the near-silent camp.

Despite the tenderness along her side, she sat bolt upright, her jaw dropping at the sight before her. In a flurry of swords, the camp had been transformed into a battlefield.  The noise was deafening: grunts of effort, shouts of command…and screams of pain.

She should have been frightened out of her wits. She should have been horrified as she saw a Stormcloak dropped to his knees, hands dripping with red as he tried to staunch the bleeding at his abdomen. But she sat numbly, staring in frozen shock. This wasn’t happening. No, these kinds of things happened far away, to battle-hardened fighters among warring bandit tribes. She was imagining this. She was dreaming. The pain had driven her mad, and now she was hallucinating.

“Monica, _move!_ ” She was roughly jostled from her stupor as Romlyn half-fell across her legs as he crawled past, dragging himself forward on his forearms as his bound feet scrabbled at the ground. “Come on!” he yelled over his shoulder.

But the pain had returned along with her clarity. There’d be no way she’d be able to pull herself along on her arms. She drew in a shaky breath—and then remembered that her hands were unbound.

She heaved herself to the side, taking the brunt of the impact on her elbow. For a moment her balance wavered, and she nearly crashed to the forest floor before catching herself with her opposite hand, twisting her legs around. She scuttled forward unsteadily, her arms shaking so badly she nearly collapsed. She had just managed to stabilize herself, moving along at a halting but steady pace, when her feet caught on a root. Caught off balance, she crashed to the ground, her damaged arms brushing against it. A whimper of pain escaped, but she bit it back, her teeth digging into her tongue so sharply she tasted blood.

Ahead of her, Romlyn had paused. “You all right?” he asked sharply. She was blinking back tears, but she nodded, grimly hauling herself up and pushing forward. Every muscle in her body cried out in protest, but she doggedly persisted, keeping Romlyn’s feet just out of her line of vision. And then something clamped down on her leg.

There was a boot in her ribs before she could even register what had happened, and suddenly she was sprawled across the forest floor again, the shadowy trees filling her vision. The stars had returned, she noted, before they were blocked out by the form of her assailant. “Surrender,” a voice demanded, and it was then that she recognized Legion armor. No words came to her as she stared up at the Legionnaire in shock, but he seemed to take her silence as an agreement. The sword pointed at her throat disappeared, and he reached down—and grabbed hold of her arm.

The pain was something out of a nightmare as it fractured outward, splinters of it fraying the nerves as it surged along them. Her stomach was boiling, her vision was warping, and a shuddering wave of vertigo had overtaken her. The stars’ whispering suddenly grew louder, and then the darkness mercifully took pity, heavily enveloping her and smothering the noise and the heat.

* * *

 

When she awoke several hours later, she was a prisoner of the Empire, alongside the Stormcloaks. And when she realized that they were all about to be executed, the news hardly even fazed her. She was so tired: tired of fear, tired of pain, tired of _burning_. And as frightening as the prospect was, death would be a release. But it was the thought of Ulfric’s impending demise that soothed the tendrils of fear wisping through her. A dark new emotion was rising in the pit of her stomach, and as she stood clustered with the other prisoners as a Legionnaire read off a list of their names, she finally put a name to it: _hatred_.

She’d never hated a single soul in her entire life. Not really. But now, her very blood seemed to scream Ulfric’s name as it pumped through her veins, calling for his death. Soon, though. Soon enough. Somehow, the thought still brought tears to her eyes. Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t make this better. Nothing could.

 “Hey. You there.” Something jostled her shoulder, and she gave a start, looking up to see the Legionnaire who’d been reading the names standing directly in front of her, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Who are you?”

Her throat felt as thought she’d swallowed sand, but somehow she found the words. “Monica Aretino,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “Of Battlehorn.” She glanced down at the ground again, but not before she caught sight of the Legionnaire’s puzzled frown.

“Battlehorn?” he repeated. “Never heard of it. Is that somewhere in the Reach?”

She shook her head. “County Chorrol.”

“Cyrodiil, eh?” He made a small sound of some unidentifiable emotion—surprise? disapproval?—and she heard the rustling of parchment as he flipped through the pages of his list. “Hmm,” he muttered, and then there was a pause. “I don’t think I see your name here…”

_Because I’m not one of them._ She didn’t bother trying to explain. She’d heard the shouts as the stranger from the wagon had made a break for it, and she had no doubt that his demise had immediately followed. There was no point in protesting. It wouldn’t solve anything, and besides, she realized, her papers were gone. She had no way of proving anything.

“Captain!” the Legionnaire suddenly shouted, and she flinched at the sudden sound. “She’s not on the list. What do we do?”

“Just forget the list,” a voice barked in reply. “She goes to the block.” And that, she thought grimly, was why it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d tried to explain herself.

“By your orders, Captain.” His voice lowered in volume. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll get your remains back to Battlehorn.” He sighed. “Follow the Captain.”

She glanced back up at him then, and to her surprise, his face wore an expression of something strangely akin to sympathy. “Wait,” she suddenly blurted out, and his eyebrows rose.

“Yes?” His expression had shifted to one of wariness, and she knew he thought she was about to declare her innocence.

“When you send…send me back,” she said, stumbling over the words as she referred to her own corpse, “please make sure it’s addressed to Aidan Vantinius.” The thought of Guinevere opening up a crate to discover her daughter’s headless body tore at her heart in the worst way imaginable. The hardened captain of Battlehorn’s guard would be much better suited to the grisly task.

The Legionnaire frowned, but he began to nod. “Aidan Vantinius,” he repeated. “Sure thing.”

She could only hope he’d keep his word, but she whispered her thanks regardless, and turned to follow the impatient captain.

But as they approached the gathered Stormcloaks, her heart sped up as the knowledge of what was about to happen finally sank in. What did it feel like to die? She wondered this desperately as she silently fell in among the Stormcloaks. Would it hurt horribly? How did one know they were dead, if they knew anything at all? The face of the Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered suddenly popped up in her consciousness, and she began to feel sick. A faint comfort, however, came in the familiar priests’ robes as a priestess stepped forward. The tension in Monica’s breathing eased, albeit only slightly. At least she would end up in Aetherius. Maybe she’d even see Giovanni again. She took a deep breath as the priestess began the rites.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you,” she began, but before she could get any further, a brash voice cut her off.

“For the love of Talos, shut up!” A Stormcloak suddenly stalked forward, headed straight for the block. “Let’s get this over with.”

“As you wish,” the priestess replied, clearly miffed as she stepped away. Monica stared at the Stormcloak in indignation, her long-dry eyes suddenly filling with tears again. These Stormcloaks had robbed her of everything, even this one small final comfort.

The Stormcloak knelt at the block, and Monica’s heart gave a quick flutter. Oh Divines, this was happening, this was really happening. As the headsman raised his axe, she looked away. Even so, she heard the wet _squelch,_ as well as the shouts of rage from the Stormcloaks.

“Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!” With a start, Monica realized that the sharp-voiced captain from before was referring to her. Her pulse quickened, her palms going slick with sweat as her knees began to tremble. She’d been longing for death—she’d even asked Romlyn to do it for her, she remembered. But this…this was really the end. After this…well, there’d _be_ no after. “I said, _next prisoner_ ,” the captain snapped.

“To the block, prisoner.” The other voice came from the Legionnaire, the one who’d promised to make sure her remains went to Captain Vantinius. “Nice and easy.”

She took a deep breath as she stepped forward, her legs shaking so badly it was a wonder they could support her. The space between the assembled prisoners and the block seemed so far; she could feel all eyes on her as she drifted across it. She eyed the headsman’s axe as she drew closer, still slick with the blood of the first Stormcloak, and a sick feeling washed over her. She swallowed hard. How badly would it hurt? Would she feel it as it cleaved through skin, through muscle? Through sinew, through _bone_? _Oh Mara, Stendarr, Arkay…_ She tightened her jaw, but inwardly, she pled as desperately as the thief had.

The Stormcloak’s body was still sprawled before the block, forcing her to pick her way around it as she stepped up to the block. She stared numbly at it for a moment, until the Captain’s sudden grip on her neck forced her to her knees. The Legionnaire from before stood beside the block, and he briefly met her gaze with a curiously pained expression before a boot against her back forced her head down.

They hadn’t bothered to remove the Stormcloak’s severed head. It gazed up at her, eyes as soulless as that Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered. She couldn’t look at it. She turned her head away, feeling the warm stickiness of his blood on her neck. And Monica Aretino came face to face with Death himself.

The vast creature had alighted atop the tower, scales black as the dead of night, colossal wings like a great ship’s sail. A dragon. A creature of myth, straight out of legend.

If she was seeing one, then she was dead. She hadn’t felt a thing, hadn’t even realized it was happening. But the dragon was the avatar of _Akatosh_ , not Arkay… Then she heard a voice gasping out, “What in Oblivion is _that?_ ” In that same moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the headsman begin to hoist up his axe. And then the creature screamed.

The explosion of noise and light that followed left her dazed. For a moment, she thought the headsman’s axe really had closed down on her neck: her vision blurred, her ears rang, and her body had gone numb. But as the buzzing faded and her vision cleared, she began to pick up on the screams—and the flames.

The sheer weight of the creature’s voice seemed to have knocked her several feet from the headsman’s block. From where she had fallen, she could see the sky above had turned a deep, swirling purple, raining fire down upon the town. _This_ was the end, she realized sickly, this was how it ended. Not with a single, methodical stroke—but with the sky itself turning to blood and the earth dissolving.

A sudden presence loomed over her, and she struggled to scramble away, thinking it was the creature. The quick sizzle of fear when she saw it was merely a Stormcloak surprised her, though: if the world was ending, why was she afraid anymore?

He was screaming at her, and she stared up him darkly. Was he going to kill her? Would he even bother? After everything, couldn’t he just let her die in peace? A shadow suddenly engulfed them, and passed in the blink of an eye as the dragon soared overhead. The Stormcloak abruptly lunged for her, and she closed her eyes, wincing away from the blow sure to follow, but instead, her center of gravity shifted and warped.

Opening her eyes, she saw the debris-littered street passing underneath, along with flashes of the Stormcloak’s heels. A musty darkness suddenly enclosed them, and then she was being lowered to the floor. The floor of the watchtower, she realized, her sharpening vision making out the shapes of Stormcloaks crowding inside, seeking shelter from the growing firestorm.

Another figure was curled up on the floor beside her, and with a flash of recognition, she realized it was Jyta. The other woman had a trickle of blood dripping down her temple, eyes glassy and disoriented as she stared through space.

“Hey.” A hand closed on her shoulder, and she jerked away in alarm. But it was only the Stormcloak from the wagon—the one who’d carried her inside. “Get up,” he said, glancing frantically toward the door as another shriek echoed from overhead. “Come on. Up the stairs.”

Her legs had turned to jelly, though; she could scarcely remember how to use them. The Stormcloak’s grip shifted, and he grasped hold of the back of her shirt collar, hauling her to her feet. “Up the stairs,” he repeated, pushing her up ahead of him. Her feet seemed to kick into motion, and she numbly pushed forward, methodically treading up the stairs.

Without warning, the wall of the tower up ahead suddenly exploded inward, sending a shower of stone against the opposite wall. The impact threw her feet out from under her, but as she crashed down across the steps, she looked up in time to see a glimmer of black scales just before the flames came blasting through the opening.

In the aftermath, somehow that Stormcloak was _still_ screaming at her. He’d crawled past her over the debris, and was now standing up by the opening, jabbing a finger in its direction. She shakily clambered to her feet, the surge of dizziness that followed nearly knocking her back down. She’d luckily taken the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, but her raw flesh had still scraped painfully against the stone, and her head was swimming with pain once again.

But she wasn’t going to let herself pass out this time. She set her teeth and doggedly stumbled the rest of the way up the stairs. Her shins were stinging, and she was fairly certain she could feel fresh blood trickling down them, but that was the least of her concerns.

The Stormcloak quickly beckoned to her as she reached him, but her attention was immediately jarred away from whatever he was trying to tell her. One of his companions had been right next to the wall when it had blown open, his corpse smashed beneath the rubble. Bones were visible, and blood was _everywhere_.

The Stormcloak shifted into her field of vision, mercifully blocking her view of the crushed man, and she forced herself to focus on whatever it was he was trying to say. “The inn,” he shouted next to her ear, arm trembling with his frenzied pointing. “You have to jump.” Through the haze of smoke, she could just make out the shell of a building, roof torn away with flames licking along the edges.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Was this a roundabout attempt to kill her? There was a _dragon_ circling overhead, a nightmare creature straight out of myth. Why was he even attempting to bother? “You’ll be fine,” he shouted, as if sensing her apprehension.”Just _go!_ ”

He pushed her toward the opening, and she teetered for a moment before regaining her balance. The ruins of the inn seemed so far away. But then the dragon screamed from somewhere overhead, and she took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She pushed off as hard as she could, kicking away from the ledge. She seemed to hang suspended in the air, but the skeleton of the inn was rushing at her so damn fast…

She cried out as the impact reverberated through her shins, pitching forward and rolling only to crack her head on a support pillar. She sucked in a breath, but immediately began choking as the thick smoke filling the room entered her lungs. Overhead, the roof was being quickly swallowed by the flames, tiny embers spitting down and stinging her skin.

She staggered to her feet, struggling to claw them away with her bound hands. The fire was everywhere she turned; there was no escaping it. She couldn’t stand it, oh Divines, she couldn’t burn anymore…

Still coughing, she lurched through the ruined building, searching for an exit. Surely there were stairs, a ladder— _something_. But a portion of the floor had been blasted away, the floorboards splintered and the entire structure sagging. Unless she wanted this disintegrating ruin to become her tomb, she’d have to jump down through the opening.

She scrambled over to it, peering down to the surface below. It looked clear enough, but it was a long drop. She crouched beside it and gingerly twisted about so she was sitting on the edge. She’d already jumped from the watchtower, she reminded herself—how much worse could this be? Pitching her weight forward, she was suddenly surrounded by nothingness—and then the floor of the inn abruptly met her.

Groaning, she struggled to her feet. She could still stand; that was good at least. Nothing appeared to be broken. The door was nearby, hanging crooked off its hinges, and she hurried toward it and darted out into the street—only to come face to face with the creature.

For a moment she stood frozen in horror, but then its maw cracked open, and she skittered out of the way just before it unleashed a stream of flame. She barreled into something solid and was nearly knocked off her feet, but a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Startled, she looked up into the face of the Legionnaire with the list.

“ _Get out of the way!_ ” he bellowed, shoving her behind a pile of debris where an old man and a little boy were already cowering. A split second later, another blast of flame washed through the street.

“Gunnar, take care of the boy,” the Legionnaire panted once the glow had faded. “I need to find General Tullius and join the defense.” His gaze shifted to Monica, and he jabbed a finger in her direction. “You. Keep close to me if you want to stay alive.”

So he could be sure to have her executed as soon as this nightmare was over? She stood frozen still where she was as the Legionnaire took off across the town, but when she heard another shriek from the creature, she impulsively sprang into action, dashing after him. Impending execution or not, he had a sword, and she couldn’t bear to face any more flames.

The Legionnaire obviously knew this town well, she noted as she followed him on a twisting maze between buildings and down cramped alleyways. His speed never faltered as he wove his way through debris, and it was all she could do to keep up with him. As they passed through a narrow gap, there was a sudden whoosh of wings as the creature passed overhead, and the Legionnaire just had time to gasp out a warning. “Stay close to the wall!” And then what appeared to be a massive flap of black leather stretched over a skeletal frame slammed down right in front of her.

She pressed flat against the wall, eyes widened in horror as she stared at the creature’s wing. If her arms were free—and she had the courage—she could have reached out and brushed her fingertips against it. The wing shuddered as the creature roared again, and she quaked with terror as she heard the crackle of flames overhead. She helplessly met the Legionnaire’s gaze as he stepped forward from the opposite wall. His lips tightening into a firm line, he lifted his sword and swung.

The creature made a guttural grunt of pain, and Monica felt several hot droplets of blood spatter across her face. The wounded wing flexed, and she instinctively ducked—just in time, as it snapped upward, and with a gale-force gust, the creature sailed away.

The Legionnaire was already moving again, and she hurried after him, still shaking with fear. This side of town seemed to have been hit harder, and the creature’s most recent attack had only made things worse. Now they were flanked by fire on all sides as they stormed through the destroyed husks of building. The smoke burned her eyes horribly, and the coals’ heat was leaching through the thin wrappings on her feet.

As they were weaving through a nearly-decimated house, her foot suddenly caught on something and she fell heavily. But it was neither dirt, wood, or smoldering debris that she fell against—this was something else entirely. Lifting her head, she saw it was a corpse.

Burned beyond recognition, its empty sockets were more haunting than the murdered Legionnaire’s eyes, or the decapitated Stormcloaks’. Letting out a gasp of horror, she instantly scrambled away, her skin still crawling with the feeling of its crisp, leathery flesh against hers. As she fled out after the Legionnaire, she noticed her eyes were dripping with moisture, although she was unsure whether it was from the smoke or from weeping.

She hung back as the Legionnaire approached a group of soldiers, but hurried back up to his side as she realized they were all scattering anyhow. “Into the keep!” she heard someone shout. “We’re leaving!”

The Legionnaire turned to her then. “It’s you and me,” he called. “Quickly. Follow me.”

She had no choice but to hurry after him, an ill feeling spreading throughout her entire body as she did so. Somehow, it was beginning to feel as though she would never escape this nightmare. She was tired, so tired. All she wanted was to be free of the flames. All she wanted was to stop running.

Curiously enough, though, she got her wish as the Legionnaire skidded to a stop so abruptly she nearly crashed into him for the second time in the past fifteen minutes. “Ralof!” he shouted, addressing someone who had appeared out of the smoke up ahead—someone clothed in Stormcloak blue. “You damned traitor. Out of my way!”

“You’re not stopping us this time, Hadvar,” came Ralof’s sneering reply. That voice—she knew that voice. Why did it sound so damn familiar? She craned her neck to peer around the Legionnaire—Hadvar—and let out a silent gasp. The Stormcloak who had carried her inside the watchtower—the one who had helped her escape—stood there, scowling at Hadvar. His attention briefly shifted to her, and she saw the recognition spread across his face as well. “You. Come with us. We’re _escaping_.” The last word, she noted, was directed at Hadvar, and the Legionnaire let out a low growl.

“Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” He abruptly turned back to Monica. “With me, prisoner. Let’s go!”

Monica stood helplessly, unsure of who to follow. Even the sight of Ralof’s Stormcloak sash made bile rise in her throat. But the Legion—the _Empire_ itself—had failed her—failed her miserably, and this Stormcloak, of all people, had risen to the occasion and saved her.

But then the dragon roared overhead, and she knew she had to make her choice—and do so quickly. No matter which she chose, death would eventually follow: whether by an Imperial beheading or by Stormcloak interrogation. It was an inevitability. She was a hole torn through Mundus—but when it came down to it, she would rather burn out than fade away. At least with the Imperials, her death would be swift. She turned on her heel and followed Hadvar into the keep.


	6. Staadnau

The massive stone walls of the keep instantly muffled the noise of the carnage outside. The quiet should have been a blessed relief, but instead, it was jarring. The room appeared to be barracks of some kind, filled with a low, cool darkness. But the world of blood and flames she’d just fled from lingered like a nightmare upon waking.

Hadvar was barring the door, slamming it shut and swinging down a heavy wooden bar into place across it. He planted his back against it, his panting ragged as he caught his breath. “Looks like it’s just us.” He dragged a hand across his forehead, pushing sweaty hair out of his face, and for the first time, he met her eyes. “Was that really a dragon?” His voice dropped in volume, suddenly earnest. “I grew up hearing stories about them—the bringers of the end times. And now, to actually see one, in person…”

He cleared his throat, and the fervored look faded from his face. “We should keep moving.” His tone was once again crisp, a Legionnaire’s stoic demeanor creeping back in the dim quiet of the keep. “Let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

The rasp of his dagger was a warning sign, electrifying her every nerve, but it was the sudden movement as he grabbed for her hands that sent her cowering away. He frowned, lowering the dagger. “Come here,” he said, his Legion voice wavering for the briefest second. “You need your hands free.”

Fear was still fluttering in her throat, but he was absolutely right. She stepped forward on quivering legs and tentatively offered her bound hands. The dagger quickly sang through her bonds, and she winced as blood flowed back into her now-tingling hands. “There you go,” he muttered as she flexed her fingers. “Now let me see if I can find something for those burns.”

He began rummaging through cabinets, throwing objects to the ground in his haste. The ringing in her ears was slowly fading, leaving her to become more aware of all her aches and pains—both old and fresh. And of course, the memory of the dragon: its horrible maw, that _voice_. That was a voice that could bring entire cities to their knees.

She gave an involuntary shiver, but Hadvar had turned back to her, a neat roll of bandages in each hand. “I can’t find any potions, but at least this should help.” This time, his movements were slow as he reached for her hand. “Some of these look infected,” he murmured, more to himself than to her as he quickly bandaged the wounds covering her arms. The pain flared up at the pressure, and she pressed her tongue against her teeth, bracing against it.

“There.” He finally finished, and she inhaled, blinking away the pain. “Put this on.” He thrust a bundle of leather in her direction, and she held it out, letting it unfurl. Legion armor. It seemed almost a sacrilege, but she pulled it on over the rags she wore regardless. It had been made for a much larger man, but despite her clumsy fingers, she managed to adjust it. Giovanni had always preferred a set of steel plates between himself and his enemy, but the fastenings were similar enough to her father’s set.

Hadvar stepped forward as she finished up, helping with the last few sets of hard-to-reach buckles. “Ready?” At her nod, he turned toward the gate at the far end of the room. “Let’s go.”

The keep was far bigger than she’d realized, she quickly discovered. As she plodded along after Hadvar in too-large Legion boots, he led her through a twisting maze along corridors and down spiraling staircases into what she realized was a rather expansive system of underground levels. He clearly knew the place well, as he moved along at a brisk and steady pace, but as they were descending one of the staircases, he abruptly paused and turned back to her.

“The torture room.” He motioned behind him. “I…” He wasn’t meeting her eyes, she noticed vaguely, instead staring at her bandaged arms. “Gods, I wish we didn’t need these…”

Before she could ask him what he was talking about, a series of shouts rang out from below, interspersed with clashing metal. “Dammit.” Hadvar whirled around and dashed down the stairs. She followed, but at the bottom she skidded to a stop, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before her.

A dead Stormcloak lay sprawled across the floor, blood-spattered face staring blankly upward, while Hadvar and another Legionnaire were engaging another. The Stormcloak struck at Hadvar, staggering with the force of his own blow, and the other Legionnaire raised his weapon. She looked away just in time.

As the muffled rasps of weapons being sheathed sounded, a low chuckle filled the room. “Looks like you happened along just in time.” Monica flinched as a third Legionnaire suddenly stepped forward from the shadows. “These boys seemed a bit upset at how I’ve been entertaining their comrades.” He laughed again, unpleasantly, and Monica skittered forward around the bodies and the blood to Hadvar’s side.

“Don’t you know what’s going on?” Hadvar’s Legion voice had returned. “A dragon is attacking the keep.”

“A dragon?" The old man snorted. "Don’t make up nonsense." Hadvar drew in a breath, his hand balling into a fist.

“We don’t have time for this. We need to get out of here.”

“You have no authority over me, boy,” the other Legionnaire snarled back, but as the exchange continued, Monica began to glance around the room. The walls were lined with narrow cells, but it was the racks of evil-looking tools and suspicious rust-colored stains that made her heart catch in her throat as she remembered what Hadvar had said about a torture room.

She actually took half a step away from Hadvar, struggling to control her breathing. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what the Empire stood for. Giovanni would be horrified to see this; any Legionnaire with a shred of honor would be ashamed.

She had nearly grown used to the fire, but the fear was an icy shock as it slid along her spine, her pulse quickening. The Stormcloak who had rescued her—Ralof—suddenly popped into her thoughts, and she wondered if she’d made a major mistake.

“Is that a _prisoner_?” Her attention was recaptured by the argument going on beside her as Hadvar’s voice abruptly rose.

“Don’t bother with that,” the old man protested, but Hadvar stormed across the room to the far row of cells, checking the other Legionnaire with his shoulder as he did so. Monica hesitantly stepped closer, her breath catching as she caught sight of the grey-faced figure propped in the corner.

“Ah.” The old man gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “Lost the key ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for weeks.”

“You sick bastard.” Hadvar’s arm shot out, snatching the old man up by the collar, and with a surprising strength, sent him sprawling across the table. “And you call yourself an Imperial Legionnaire.” His words were warped with barely-suppressed rage as he forced them through clenched teeth. There was the rasp of a dagger, and Monica felt the breath sucked from her lungs as it flashed at the man’s throat.

“ _Hadvar!_ ” she shrieked, her voice returning to her as the Legionnaire from Ulfric’s camp and the headless Stormcloak swam before her eyes. Hadvar’s head whipped in her direction, and a quiver of fear ran through her, her gaze zooming in on the blade in his hand.

But Hadvar released the man, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief as his dagger was clipped back in its sheath. He turned away, bowing his head as he gripped the cell bars, and the old man scoffed.

 “You’ll pay for that, boy,” he growled, his eyes spitting sparks.

Without warning, Hadvar wheeled and punched the other man square in the face. There was a crunch, and the man staggered, hands coming away from his face bright red as blood poured from his nose.

“I don’t care.” He stomped toward a low doorway in the corner of the room, pausing to sneer back at the old man, and she had no choice but to tentatively hurry after him. “We’re getting out of here.”

Anger was rising from him in waves, setting the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on end as she followed him down a narrow row of cells. The cell bars were like fangs framing dark maws, only the stench giving any indication of the horrors that lay within. But as they neared the end, the heavy light of the flickering torch revealed the ghastly outlines of skeletal remains.

Hadvar glanced over his shoulder at her gasp of horror, but with his face cast in shadow, she was unable to make out his expression. He merely stepped to the side and motioned for her to duck through an opening in the crumbling brick. “Let’s go, Aretino.” He glanced behind them, and when he spoke again, his tone was tinged with sadness. “There’s nothing we can do for them now.”

* * *

 

 The main chamber of the cave they emerged in was spacious, the murky darkness interrupted here and there by faint patches of sunlight from overhead. But they were only travelling deeper beneath the ground as they made their way through, and the darkness became heavier as the way grew narrow—not to mention the treacherous terrain. By the time the light of day finally appeared up ahead, Monica’s knees were scraped bloody, and Hadvar was limping painfully.

After the dense blackness of the cave, the sun’s glare was blinding. Shielding her stinging eyes, she stumbled out into the open, gulping in deep breaths of the crisp, clean air. “Wait!”

Without warning, Hadvar shoved her, sending her sprawling across a scattering of pine needles and pebbles. Before she could even react, there was a sound from above like rhythmic gusts of wind, and a massive shadow engulfed them.

Hadvar crouched mere inches away, watching as the dragon soared overhead, wings beating steadily as it sailed higher and higher, until it was just a speck on the northern horizon.

“It’s gone.” There was uncertainty in his words, as though he were trying to convince himself as well as her. “Gods, I hope it’s for good.” He stood, offering her a hand, but she scrambled to her feet on her own. He was carefully watching her, wearing the same expression he had when the captain had ordered her to the block. “Look, I don’t know—” He began to speak, but cut his words off abruptly, tightly pursing his lips. “Do you know where you’re headed?”

Headed? She didn’t even know where she _was_. She hadn’t had a plan in place since the carriage had rolled up to Bruma, a moment that now felt like part of a different lifetime. She shook her head, staring down at her boots as Hadvar gave a sigh.

“The closest town is Riverwood,” he finally said. “My uncle’s the blacksmith there. That’s where I’m headed.” He paused, and even through the haze of her aching body and shredded nerves, she got the sense he was making a decision. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like. I’m sure he’ll help you out.”

She thought back to the torture room, a shudder crawling up her spine at the thought of skeletal hands reaching out from the bars of their final resting place, the sagging flesh of the dead prisoner’s face, the torturer’s light easy laugh as he spoke of his victims. Of her own death sentence, handed down without a moment’s thought. After today, she would never again trust the Imperial Legion. But her belongings were gone, her injuries were severe, and she had no way of knowing how far she was from civilization. And once again, this Legionnaire was offering her only way out.

She began to nod, and he cleared his throat. “Well then,” he said, more to himself than to her. “We’ve got a ways to go. No sense in wasting time standing around. If you’re ready, that is.”

As they set off down the path, she looked out over the valley, catching her first real sight of Skyrim. The sun was hanging low in the western sky, its pink glow illuminating the jagged edges of the mountain ranges visible on all horizons. The trees here weren’t nearly as dense as they’d been up on the mountainside, and sparse, low scrub filled the spaces in between. The purity of the air was a refreshing change after the dense smoke of Helgen and the staleness of the cave, but her chest still burned as she drew in breaths, and every few minutes either she or Hadvar would find themselves doubled over with a coughing fit.

They travelled in relative silence, aside from the coughing and Hadvar’s occasional quiet comments on their surroundings or the conflict with the Stormcloaks. The light slowly faded as the hours wore on, and as they staggered through a deepening twilight, Monica became certain that each step she took would be her last.

Everything hurt: her injuries stung, her very bones ached, and she could feel blisters forming as her feet slid around in the too-large boots. With every step, her body screamed at her to _stop_ —which she might have done, were it not for Hadvar hobbling beside her, mumbling every so often that Riverwood was “not much further,” just as he’d been saying for hours.

But when they rounded a corner and the town’s watchtowers came into sight, she nearly cried with relief. Low and wooden, the towers were shabby with disrepair, yet they sat there staunchly at the edge of town, a tangible end to this nightmarish journey finally in sight.

The town was quiet and nearly empty, the darkness broken here and there by the glow of lighted windows. As her ears picked up the sound of clanging metal, Hadvar pointed to the left, veering off toward one of the many low, wooden buildings. “Uncle Alvor!” he called out.

The clanging stopped, and a tall, bearded figure emerged from the shadows of the side porch, silhouetted against the growing darkness by the light of the forge behind him. “Hadvar?” His tone bore a note of surprise, and although it was not unpleasant, she could make out the shrewdness of his features as they stepped forward into the light. “Wasn’t expecting to see you for some time. Are you on leave or…” His words trailed off, and his gaze slowly scanned over them as he took in their ragged appearance. “Shor’s bones, boy, what happened?” His alarm was evident now, but Hadvar quickly shushed him.

“Keep your voice down, uncle,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the road. “We shouldn’t talk here.”

Alvor sighed, but miraculously didn’t ask any more questions. “Come on inside, then,” he said. “Sigrid will get you something to eat, and you can tell us what happened.” Motioning for them to follow, he made his way down the length of the porch and swung open the door. “We’ve got company, Sigrid!”

An auburn-haired woman turned from the fire as they stepped inside, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Hadvar. “Hadvar! This is a surprise, we didn’t think…” Much like Alvor, her voice faded as she noticed the state they were in. Her eyes grew sharp as she exchanged a look with her husband, and when she spoke again, her tone was brisk. “Sit down, you two.” She marched over to a cabinet in the corner and took out a stack of bowls. “Alvor, there’s a stew on the fire,” she announced. “I’ll set out some fresh clothing, but first I expect you’ll be needing baths.” She turned to the far corner of the room. “Dorthe!” she called.

Monica jumped as something touched her, but it was only Hadvar. “You can sit down, you know,” he murmured. He gestured toward the table, where Alvor had already taken a seat. She moved stiffly toward the nearest chair, nearly sighing with relief when the weight was taken off her aching legs. “ _Dorthe!_ ” Sigrid was shouting again, and with a clatter, a small blond figure appeared in the corner.

“Hadvar!” she cried excitedly, hurtling forward with such force that the burly Legionnaire teetered in his chair for a moment. “I didn’t know you were coming! What’s it like in Helgen? Do you like it there?” She suddenly seemed to notice Monica. “Who’s your friend?”

“Dorthe,” Sigrid interrupted, “don’t pester your cousin. Come with me; we’re going to get water.”

“But I want to talk to Hadvar,” she objected, a furrow appearing between her brows. Sigrid’s eyes narrowed.

“ _Now_ , Dorthe.” Her tone left no room for argument. Hadvar smiled, a real smile that briefly erased the weariness from his face.

“Do as your ma says,” he agreed, ruffling the girl’s hair. “There’ll be plenty of time for you and I to talk later.”

Dorthe sighed, resignedly following her mother toward the door. “But it’ll take _forever_ ,” she muttered. “Can’t I at least ask Frodnar to help?” It might have been Monica’s imagination, but she thought she saw Hadvar’s face freeze at the mention of the name.

“No,” Sigrid said, her gaze once again flickering to Alvor’s. “No, we’re doing this together,” she continued, her words somehow sounding forced and overly bright. “It’ll be fun.”

“But Ma…” Dorthe’s protests disappeared out the door, and Alvor leaned forward, a deep frown settling across his face.

“Now, then, boy,” he said, “What’s going on here?” When there was no response, Monica glanced up from the scarred surface of the tabletop to see Hadvar glancing uneasily between her and his uncle. “What are you doing here?” Alvor repeated. “The two of you look like you lost an argument with a cave bear. What happened?”

Hadvar sighed. “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted. “You know I was assigned to General Tullius’ guard. We were stopped in Helgen, and…” He paused, glancing at Monica, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a hint of guilt flicker across his face.

“And?” Alvor pressed.

“And we were attacked.” Hadvar’s eyes slid shut. “By a dragon.”

There was a silence that followed, and when she finally looked at Alvor, his concern had been replaced by misgiving. “A dragon?” he repeated, doubt creasing his brow. He turned abruptly to Monica. “Is he drunk?” he demanded sharply.

She shrank away from the flare of anger, quickly shaking her head as Hadvar interjected.

“I know it sounds…well, unbelievable,” he admitted. “But there it was just the same, big as a mammoth and blacker than night, like something out of nightmare. Flew over and just tore the place apart.” He let out a weary sigh and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Helgen is completely destroyed,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know if anyone else made it. I barely did myself.”

The outrage had faded from Alvor’s face, his expression growing solemn as he watched his nephew. Finally, he began to nod. “What do you need?” he asked quietly.

“Food, supplies, a place to stay.” Hadvar shrugged. “I need to get back to Solitude, but as you can see,” he gestured toward Monica, “we’re really in no shape to travel.”

“Of course.” Alvor nodded. “I’m glad to help however I can.” He then turned to Monica. “Any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend is a friend of mine. You’re welcome to stay as well. Were you also part of General Tullius’ guard?”

“She’s a civilian,” Hadvar cut in quickly—too quickly, but if Alvor noticed, he didn’t say anything. “There was mass confusion in Helgen. It was everyone for themselves, so Monica and I escaped together.” It was jarring to hear him say her name—but no more so than anything else about this entire experience. She dropped her gaze back down to the surface of the table as Alvor leaned back in his chair and gave a long, ragged sigh.

“A dragon,” he repeated, the words now hanging heavy in his tone. “A dragon, here in Skyrim. Could it really mean…”

The door crashed open and Monica shot upright,  her heart continuing to thunder even as she realized it was only Dorthe, lugging a bucket of water. “Dragon?” she demanded. “Hadvar, did you fight a _dragon_?”

“Hush, child.” Sigrid appeared behind her, also bearing buckets. She pulled the door shut firmly behind her, then paused to survey the table. “Alvor, you didn’t feed them?” she exclaimed, hurrying to the fire.

But Dorthe wasn’t finished. “What did it look like?” she pressed. “Did it have big teeth?”

“ _Dorthe_!” Sigrid spun from the fire. “Go get the rest of the water,” she ordered sharply. “ _Now_.”

“It did have big teeth.” Hadvar suddenly spoke up. “Big wings, too.”

Monica missed the glare Sigrid must have shot Alvor, but he sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. “Now Dorthe,” he said patiently, “listen to your mother.”

Dorthe groaned. “Fine,” she muttered, slipping back outside with a long-suffering sigh. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sigrid spoke.

“A dragon?” Her voice was tense, her features frozen, and as Hadvar and Alvor both nodded, her expression fell into one of horror.

“Helgen’s gone.” The dread in Alvor’s tone now matched Hadvar’s. “These two escaped alone, and we don’t know if there are any other survivors.”

“Oh _gods_.” Sigrid clapped a hand over her mouth, sinking into a nearby chair. “Helgen isn’t far—what if it comes _here_?”

“It was headed north, last we saw of it. It’s long gone by now.” Hadvar’s words were meant to be reassuring, but even he sounded unconvinced.

“And who’s to say it won’t return?” Sigrid snapped, but then her expression wavered. “I’m sorry, Hadvar,” she whispered. “But if there’s a dragon out there…” She didn’t finish the thought, but she didn’t need to. Monica was already intimately acquainted with the same fear shining in the woman’s eyes.

“I wounded it.” Hadvar’s voice was low, and when she glanced over at him, she saw that fear reflected in his face. But when he spoke again, his words crackled with defiance. “It was wounded when I struck it.” He met Sigrid’s gaze. “It can _die_.” The final word was tinged with wonder, as though he’d stumbled across a grand realization. But she thought of the ear-splitting crack as the stone wall of Helgen’s watchtower had shattered, and her stomach dropped even lower.

“Before we get ahead of ourselves with talk of dragon-slaying,” Alvor cut in, “perhaps we ought to get the two of you fed and cleaned up.” He hid it well, she realized, but the strained, deliberate quality of his voice gave away the fact that his terror was equal to his wife’s. He had risen to his feet, and was inching toward the door. “I’d better check on Dorthe,” he mumbled, and then he was gone.

After a moment, Sigrid rose to her feet and swept over to the fire, wordless as she filled bowls of stew. Monica barely blinked as one was set in front of her, too tired to make any movement towards it. It’d been days since she’d eaten, though, and the clawing in her stomach finally took over, her fingers weak and clumsy as she gripped the spoon. But it only took a few bites for her to discover the motion was too painful, and she ended up silently staring into the bowl as Alvor and Dorthe hurried in and out with the buckets of water.

As she sat warm and secure among friendly faces, though, she could feel an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, a whisper of a warning at the faint reaches of her consciousness. But despite it, the fire that had boiled beneath her skin was in her head now, replaced in her veins by ice. Whether it was the heat or just pure exhaustion, she didn’t know, but she could feel her senses slowly dulling, her awareness growing muffled. And even as she drooped from her chair toward the floor, she held the sobering knowledge that it would be a long time before she ever felt safe again.


	7. The Silence

“Monica?”

Monica’s eyes blinked open at the sound of her name, staring blankly at the bare wood of the wall as the sound of footsteps padded closer. “Monica, Hadvar’s ready for you.” Sigrid’s voice was gentle as she approached, her words as soft as her footsteps.

Monica pushed aside the blankets as she slowly sat up, wincing at the stabbing ache of her bruised ribs. Swinging her legs over the side, she stiffly rose to her feet and shuffled across the room.

It’d been a little over a week since she and Hadvar had arrived in Riverwood—although she’d only become aware of it recently. As Hadvar had noted back in Helgen, some of her burns had grown infected, and the subsequent fever that had wracked her body left her delirious for days. She was still feeling the lingering effects of it, but even in her dazed state, she knew how close it had come to claiming her. But as Alvor had put it when he’d walked through the door to see her awake and upright drinking soup in Dorthe’s bed, she was a “fighter.” As if that meant anything. She was still plagued by constant pain, and she still cowered at the slightest sound in anticipation of a dragon’s scream.

She reached the fire, where Hadvar sat on a cot, his wrapped ankle propped up on it. Without a word, she stooped so he could grip her shoulder, his other hand clutching the makeshift crutch Alvor had carved for him. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself upright, clinging to both her and the crutch for support as he staggered over to the table on his good foot. When he’d finally pulled his boot off that first night, he’d told her, his ankle had been black and swollen twice its size. According to Sigrid, it wasn’t broken, but it was a nasty sprain, and he was looking at a good several weeks before he’d be back on his feet again.

He lowered himself into the nearest chair, and she sat down at the end of the table, gingerly laying her arms on the corner between them. He’d taken to changing her bandages himself, and even though it’d only been a few days, it had already become a ritual.

As he began to lay aside the wrappings, she lifted her eyes up to the ceiling. She couldn’t bear to watch; without a visual, it was much easier to dissociate from the process. The pain, however, was a sharp reminder, and she gritted her teeth together, determined not to pass out.

“They’re looking better today,” Hadvar remarked, lightly lifting her hands and turning them over. “With the infection gone they should start healing faster.” He paused. “How do they feel? Any better?” She shrugged, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and he sighed. “Well, give it some time,” he reasoned, and she heard the scrape of a jar lid as the aroma of the salve filled the room.

Although she made it through while remaining conscious, her head was swimming by the time it was over. Blinking away the last flares of pain, she rose to her feet and shakily made her way back to the bed. But within minutes, she heard Sigrid’s voice again, rousing her from her almost-slumber.

“Monica?” Her footsteps approached again, somehow sounding more tentative than usual. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

That got her attention, and she slowly sat up to see Sigrid standing at the foot of the bed, wearing an earnest, careful expression. “Dorthe wanted to go outside to work on her lessons. I was wondering if you could sit with her? Just to keep an eye on things.” She smiled, and Monica frowned. What little she had seen of Riverwood seemed quiet, and besides, Dorthe was hardly the age to need a babysitter.

But then she saw the girl standing behind her, wearing the same cautious expression as her mother, and Monica felt her face color as she realized this was all a ruse. Nodding, she slipped from the bed and followed Dorthe to the door, thinly returning the girl’s cheerful smile.

In the doorway, however, she froze. Stepping into the open air for the first time since she’d arrived in Riverwood was a startling feeling, and for a moment, the breeze seemed to carry the sound of dragon’s wings. But Dorthe turned to her with that tentative smile once again, and she woodenly followed the younger girl out onto the porch.

There was a bench beside the door, and she sank down onto it as Dorthe sat on the steps, humming cheerfully to herself as she spread out her books beside her. It was too bright out here, Monica thought nervously, pressing her spine against the wall of the house. Too loud, too many strangers, too many distractions. A passerby turned at the corner by the house, staring curiously at her as he passed, and she shrank back, wishing she could sink into the ground itself.

But as time wore on, she began to breathe a little easier. It was cooler here than it was in Cyrodiil this time of year, and the air was clean and filled with birds’ songs. She finally relaxed enough to tilt her head back and close her eyes, but she was startled out of her peaceful state by the sound of a voice.

“Hey, Dorthe.” Her eyes flew open to see a boy about Dorthe’s age approaching, a shaggy grey dog at his side.

“Frodnar!” Dorthe shot to her feet, knocking her book to the ground in her haste. “I thought you were helping your ma at the mill today.”

“Just in the morning.” His eyes then drifted to the side, peering through the shadows of the porch at Monica. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper, his stare never wavering.

“Ma’s sister from Falkreath.” The boldfaced lie rolled off the girl’s tongue so easily, Monica blinked in surprise. The name Frodnar was familiar, she realized; Dorthe had mentioned him the night they’d arrived in Riverwood—and Alvor and Sigrid had reacted quite strangely.

The boy continued to stare. “What’s wrong with her hands?” he whispered, and Monica instinctively drew her arms in closer, tugging down her sleeves to cover the bandages.

“House fire,” Dorthe replied matter-of-factly. “Terrible tragedy. Everything’s gone. So she’s staying with us for a while.” She glanced down at the dog at the boy’s side, and abruptly changed the subject. “What did you do to your dog?” she asked.

The boy’s attention finally shifted from Monica, and he too turned to the panting animal. “Oh yeah—I painted an old fur white and tied it onto him,” he said with a snicker. “I’ve been painting some branches, too. I just have to wait for them to dry before I can tie those on, and then—instant frostbite spider!”

Dorthe scoffed. “A costume?” she demanded. “You can’t be serious. Nobody’s going to believe that your dog is a frostbite spider! And if they do, they’ll kill him.” Her tone had turned disdainful. “That’s not much of a prank.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed. “Well, what would you rather do?” he challenged.

“Well, we could play…tag! You’re it!”

“Hey, no fair!” he protested, spinning to follow her as she bounded off the porch and charged across the street. “Get her, Stump!” he shouted as they disappeared around the side of a building.

Monica watched them go, vaguely wondering if she should be concerned. That had been a well-crafted diversion—something she wouldn’t have thought the girl capable of. But more importantly, she wondered why it had been executed in the first place. The boy seemed harmless, and not too overly bright.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the house. This was the first time she’d been alone since that morning in the mountains—the morning the Stormcloaks had picked her up. And while the solitude was a blessed relief, the accompanying silence allowed the memories to creep back, forcing themselves front and center. The heat, the fear…the taste of ash, the shrieks of the dragon as it swooped overhead…

She nearly leapt out of her skin as the front door clattered open, skittering sideways as her heart beat frantically against her ribs. “How’s it going out here?” Hadvar asked cheerfully as he clumsily stumbled out onto the porch, gripping onto his crutch for dear life. His smile switched to a frown as he took in her wide-eyed expression, and he glanced around warily. “Where’s Dorthe?”

In response, she lifted a finger and shakily pointed across the street, where they were hopping over a fence, still engaged in their game of tag. Hadvar’s frown deepened, and she noticed him cringing back further into the shadows. “We’d better go inside,” he said darkly, swiveling around and hobbling back through the door. He didn’t have to tell her twice.

* * *

 

 She began to spend more and more time outside in the coming weeks. Autumn was underway, and it was rapidly taking hold. It was cool in the mornings, but the chill gradually burned off into balmy afternoons, and although they were surrounded by an evergreen forest, the few deciduous plants in the area were slowly brightening with color. There was one week when it rained for three days straight, and during that time she hardly left the porch, breathing in the smell of the rain-soaked earth and listening to the steady sound of clanging from Alvor’s forge. And when the rain finally cleared, Dorthe and Frodnar gathered out in the streets, splashing each other and leaping into puddles.

But at night, the flames of Helgen would rise up around her again, and she would awaken in a sweat, clapping her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. When the thundering of her heart eased, she would slip out of bed, tiptoeing across the room and out the door. There, in the darkness of the porch, she could weep freely, with only the cold harsh light of the moon to witness her shame.

Some nights she would curl up on the bench by the door only to dart inside the moment her tears ceased, certain that the night breeze bore the sound of a dragon’s roar alongside the chill. Others, she would sit silently for hours after her eyes had gone dry, with only a single thought running through her mind.

Ulfric. In the split second in between waking and opening her eyes, she would see his face flash before her vision. Every detail had been burned into her memory with searing clarity, and she would sit frozen for a moment, blankets clutched to her chest, until she convinced herself that it was only her memory he haunted.

She didn’t know if he had survived Helgen. There’d been few who had, that much was clear. No other survivors had come limping through Riverwood. But there was another route out of Helgen—the one leading to Ivarstead. And some quiet voice inside her head solemnly informed her that the Jarl was still out there.

Her various cuts and scrapes healed, her black eye faded, and her bruised ribs were slowly reaching the point where she could move about—albeit carefully—without pain. According to Hadvar, her arms were getting better as well—slowly, but with constant improvement. But as the pain dissipated, it was replaced by constant itching.

Hadvar urged her not to scratch at it, lest she tear the fragile new tissue, but in a way, it was even more agonizing than the blistering pain had been. And in attempt to keep her mind off of it, she found herself helping Alvor in the forge.

She had no training as a smith, and with her arms still healing there was little she could do in the way of heavy labor, but she still found ways to make herself useful. She prepared molds and swept the floors while listening to Alvor uncomfortably fill the silence by explaining the conventions of his trade. She learned about the properties and uses of different alloys, about proper temperatures and techniques, and, after a local store owner was robbed, about the structures and mechanisms of locks. Being a tailor’s daughter also had its advantages—although it was nothing like the delicate embroidery that had covered Lady Adlen’s gowns, she found she was quite adept at stitching together the seams of leather. But the roar of the forge and the hiss of molten metal still made her stomach twist with fear, and as the raised scars began to form across her arms, her thoughts slowly returned to her original purpose.

* * *

 

 It was in the wake of a nightmare one night when her usual thoughts racing on a loop through her head took a sharp turn in a new direction. As she huddled out on the porch, shivering against brisk night air, she suddenly thought of her papers. Taken from her in the Stormcloak camp, she had no idea what would become of them; whether they’d been destroyed by the Stormcloaks, abandoned during the Imperial raid, or confiscated by the Imperials and subsequently lost in Helgen’s fires. But without them, she slowly realized, there’d be no making it back across the border. As a new kind of dread took hold of her, she abruptly bounded forward off the porch.

She had no clear direction in mind as she set out—only that if she didn’t keep moving, she would dissolve into a quivering mess of panic. But as she trudged along and her head began to clear, she slowly realized that her feet were carrying her out of Riverwood, up along the road into the mountains—back toward Helgen.

Her pace briefly slowed as she considered the direction she was headed in. It wasn’t as if she were actually going back. It was too far, and besides, she’d find nothing there. Helgen was a scorched ruin; it’d been demolished by…

She shuddered as she thought of the dragon, and her panic once more began to rise. How did any of it matter? What point could there possibly be when a creature like that existed? When at any moment it could appear on the horizon and crack open the sky before doing what it did best: destroy. Devour. She shivered again, anxiously looking up at the night sky. But there were no black wings, and as she trekked on, her thoughts slowly began to align, falling into some semblance of order.

Her papers were gone, yes. So was her coin: all of it, and she felt something twist in her chest at the notion that she’d lost all of Guinevere’s savings. All she had to her name were the clothes on her back, and even those weren’t really hers: an old dress of Sigrid’s and the Legion-issued boots she’d fled Helgen in, refitted by Alvor. But none of this changed the fact that Aventus was still in that orphanage.

It was now in the final days of Hearthfire: well over a month since she’d left Battlehorn, and nearly seven since Naalia’s death. By now, Guinevere had to have realized something had gone wrong, and Monica’s heart gave a twinge at the image of her mother bravely getting up in the morning and dealing with Lady Adlen’s demands, all the while sobbing herself to sleep at night thinking her daughter was dead—or even worse, that she’d betrayed her, taking the money and running off with it. And as for Aventus…well, if she were Aventus, she’d have given up all hope by now.

The darkness around her had been turning to grey as she walked along lost in her thoughts, and now, she lifted her head to see three monolithic shapes rising out of the pre-dawn gloom. She slowed her gait as she approached, drifting to a stop as she stood before them. The Guardian Stones. Hadvar had pointed them out on that long ago evening as they’d staggered past them on their way to Riverwood, but she’d barely registered the sight of them at the time.

Now, she slowly made her way into their midst, stepping over roots and fallen leaves and sinking down on the frosty stone, hugging her knees to her chest. With trembling hands, she slowly pushed up her sleeve, fingers tracing the fresh scars. It was so horrifying to look at them, to carry that reminder of what had happened permanently etched into her flesh. In a way, it seemed almost a cruel joke that she should be forced to go on, to constantly relive every single agonizing moment instead of falling away in death’s release. But every breath she drew was a gift, and she knew that. By all odds, she should not have survived. And as she watched the first streaks of orange slowly paint the eastern horizon, the knowledge of what lay before her was as cold as the ground she sat upon.

She had to go on. Helpless and terrified as she was, she couldn’t abandon Aventus. She tilted her head back, catching sight of the last of the stars fading into the brightening sky. Her doom no longer seemed as imminent as it once had, but it was still certain. She closed her eyes, wincing at the prospect of dying alone out on the road—starving or freezing or being torn apart by animals or bandits—or being swallowed alive by black wings and fire as they rained from the sky. But as fate pushed her toward her end, she would push back. And if she was going to die, she would do so fighting for Aventus.

She slowly rose to her feet, brushing the frost from her skirt as she gazed desperately at the stones surrounding her, as though searching for some sort of sign. She was clearly no warrior; her body was weak and broken. She was no mage, either; her magicka was feeble and unstable, hardly something she could rely upon But the Thief…

She stepped forward, raising her hand to brush her fingers over the outline carved into its surface. The Thief prevailed in the most dire of circumstances, forging through insurmountable barriers while remaining unseen. Luck was the Thief’s gift, and luck was what she needed most right now. “Please,” she whispered, “guide my steps on this path I take.” She drew in a breath, scrunching her eyes shut. “Help me get home.”

* * *

 

She stumbled back into Riverwood around mid-morning, chilled to the bone and completely soaked from the storm that had unexpectedly rolled in as she languidly made her way down the mountain. Hadvar glanced up at the sound of the door, his expression turning to one of simultaneous relief and concern as he caught sight of her. “You’re back,” he said, rising to his feet. “You had us worried, you know. Disappearing in the middle of the night like that?” He crossed over to the chest at the foot of Alvor and Sigrid’s bed, withdrawing a heavy woolen blanket and draping it over her shoulders. “Sit down,” he said, returning to the fire. “I’m making some stew, I’ll get you a bowl in a few minutes.”

These were all familiar gestures, little acts of kindness he’d been performing since the beginning. At first, it’d been a little unnerving, but it hadn’t taken long for her to decipher the motivation behind it. Hadvar was a benevolent, even-tempered soul—a fact she quickly discovered as she watched him joke with Dorthe and help Sigrid around the house and remain cheerful even when the mere act of crossing the room unaided was a monumental achievement for him. But despite all of this, the memory of the wild glint in his eye as he’d held his dagger to the torturer’s throat still sent shivers down her spine. And the contrast between his typical behavior and that glaringly out of character act told her everything she needed to know. She’d been raised by a Legionnaire, after all—and she knew if Giovanni were to encounter the horrors they’d discovered in the torture room, his guilt would at least match—if not exceed—Hadvar’s.

So she said nothing as he tiptoed around and fussed over every little detail of her recovery. She owed him her life, and his shame practically radiated from him every time he looked at her. If it helped him to assuage his guilt, it would be a small step toward repaying her debt.

But now, as she sat a safe distance away from the flames, watching him bustle about, there was something different about him. He’d finally been able to discard the crutch, and although his movements were slow and unsteady, he was—for all intents and purposes—officially back on his feet. He’d stopped stealing those guilty glances out of the corners of his eye, though; instead, his gaze was focused straight forward, staring through space, and he wore a small, pensive frown.

Sure enough, as he placed a steaming bowl in her hands and sat down beside her, he finally turned to her, clearing his throat. “There was something I wanted to tell you,” he said. She paused, lifting her eyebrows slightly as she detected a hint of nervousness in his tone. He fidgeted briefly before speaking again.

“In a couple days, I’m going to be heading back to Solitude,” he announced slowly. “I’m up and moving around again, as you can see,” he gestured toward his ankle, “and, well…” He shrugged. “It’s been a month,” he said simply. “I’ve most likely been listed as dead at this point, and the longer I wait, the more likely I am to be accused of desertion.” He smiled ruefully.

“But by no means are you obligated to leave,” he clarified quickly. “Sigrid and Dorthe love having you around, and I know Alvor appreciates your help in the forge.” He hesitated. “You know, I talked to him,” he said suddenly, his words spilling out in a rush, “And he’d be willing to take you on as an apprentice.”

She looked up in surprise at that one; a month ago, she might have laughed at such a ludicrous notion: her, a smith? Instead, she glanced back to the fireplace, gazing at the hypnotic dance of the flames. “You’d receive room and board in exchange for your labor, of course, as well as a percentage of the coin made from your work—not to mention the chance to work alongside a fine smith like Alvor.” There was a pause. “It’s a good offer.”

It _was_ a good offer. And to her surprise, some small part of her almost wanted to accept. But instead, she drew in a breath and wetted her lips. “I can’t.”

There was a clatter as Hadvar dropped his spoon. She didn’t blame him for his shock; since their arrival, she’d barely spoken three words. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze as he stared at her, astonishment written across his features. “I can’t,” she repeated, this time shaking her head for emphasis. “I have to get to Riften.”

Hadvar appeared to be perplexed, his brow furrowed as he stared her down. “Riften,” he repeated slowly. “Mind if I ask what’s in Riften?” His demeanor had shifted, she realized; before, he’d spoken to her casually, with familiarity—almost as an afterthought. Now, his words were deliberate and guarded.

“My cousin,” she replied shortly, cringing at the thought of having to recount the entire ugly story. But Hadvar’s expression was still careful—concerned, even—without any traces of morbid curiosity creeping in, so she spoke anyway, swallowing the lump in her throat. “He’s ten,” she said, her voice barely a murmur. “His father disappeared not long after he was born, and his mother died this past winter. He was sent to an orphanage in Riften, so my mother sent me to go get him and bring him home.”

“Home to Battlehorn?” Hadvar remarked, and she frowned, both at the fact that he’d remembered such a small, insignificant detail and at the reminder of that day in Helgen.

“Yes.” She nodded her head, wondering if she should include another part of the story—the one involving her current predicament. She hesitated, but then the words came rushing out of their own accord. “But there’s a problem,” she blurted out. “My papers are gone.”

Hadvar appeared mildly confused. “Papers?” he asked, and she felt her heart flutter as she danced closer to the other part of the story—the part she was unwilling to delve into.

“My travel papers,” she replied calmly. “Documentation of my identity…my citizenship…” She shrugged, and Hadvar’s perplexed expression smoothed out slightly.

“Ah,” he said. “I know what you mean.” But his frown returned. “What happened to them?”

His tone was surprisingly gentle, and she allowed the truth to slip out a little further.

“I don’t know.” For a moment, tears threatened to spill from her eyes as the memories pressed closer. “They’re a pile of ash lying in Helgen now, I suppose.” Her voice broke on the accursed town’s name, and Hadvar instinctively shifted closer, only to freeze when she flinched at the motion.

“I see,” he said. There was a hint of that stoic Legionnaire she’d first met creeping back into his voice, and he leaned away, drumming his thumbs on the arms of his chair. “Well,” he said briskly, and she realized he was in full-blown Legionnaire mode now. “That shouldn’t be too much of a problem—for now, at least. You can travel the province freely—go to Riften, get your cousin—whatever you need to do. However, you _will_ run into trouble when you decide to return home.” His eyes narrowed at that last bit, and she forced herself to remain calm, blinking the tears back more fiercely. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, she miserably reminded herself.

“They’re much stricter about entering Cyrodiil,” he muttered. “Leaving’s easy enough; it’s getting back that’s the hard part.” His brow wrinkled in concentration as he stared into the flames, and she nervously shifted in her seat, wondering if she should mention the means by which she’d entered Skyrim in the first place.

Finally, he broke his stare, swiveling back toward her. “There’s no easy solution,” he sighed. “In addition to the papers, there’s the issue of coin, and it’s late in the year. Travel will be difficult.” He shook his head.

“Come to Whiterun with me,” he suddenly offered. “I’m going to be taking a carriage to Solitude from there, and you can find one to Riften. Once you get the boy, head back to Whiterun. I’m sure you can find work there, and I’ll see what I can do about your papers from Solitude. Come spring, I’m sure everything will be in order, and you and the boy can make your way back to Cyrodiil.”

_Spring?_ She stared at him in disbelief. “Spring?” she repeated, the blood pounding through her ears. “That’s…” She broke off with a nervous laugh. “I can’t wait that long.” She could hear the panic rising in her own voice, but Hadvar smiled sadly and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it’ll take time to sort out, and besides, winter’s on its way. Once it hits, you won't have many travel options. The only thing you can do is sit tight and be ready to go when the time comes.” He sighed.

“I know fate hasn’t been kind to you,” he said suddenly, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance at her arms. Although covered by her sleeves, she instinctively drew them closer to her body as he continued. “But you’re a tough one, Monica Aretino. You’ll do just fine.”

She silently groaned, knowing that despite it all, his solution was the only one that made sense. She couldn’t go anywhere without her papers—and in the time being, she’d have to do _something_ to keep her and Aventus fed and under a roof. However, despite Hadvar’s reassuring smile, she felt a knot forming in her stomach. Although the reasoning behind it was solid, she had a bad feeling about this plan—although perhaps that was the reason for her misgivings. The last time she’d had a foolproof plan in place, she thought darkly, had been when she left Battlehorn.

But this was different, she assured herself, trying to ignore the lingering prickle of worry. Last time, she’d been too foolhardy, making last minute changes and acting rashly in the face of unforeseen situations. This time, she knew better. This time, she would stay the course. And she could only pray that this time, fate wouldn't have other plans in store for her.


	8. Back on Track

Monica and Hadvar left Riverwood on a damp, bleak morning early in Frostfall. It was still black outside when they rose, but Alvor and Sigrid got up alongside them, and even Dorthe, who’d said her goodbyes the night before, came clattering up the ladder,  pushing her sleep-ruffled hair out of her face.

“You need to eat,” Sigrid kept saying as she hurried around the kitchen preparing food for them to take with them, all the while keeping an eye on the porridge bubbling on the fire. Alvor, on the other hand, sat at the table practically interrogating Hadvar about his travel plans, while Dorthe sat beside the hearth, chattering away in her usual fashion and bickering with her mother as Sigrid snapped that she was in the way.

But despite the chaos, they managed to get their belongings together and out the door, waving to Sigrid and Alvor as they stepped off the porch and onto the road. The lantern Hadvar held cast wavering patterns over the frost as their boots crunched across it, and as they stepped outside the town limits, the darkness—and the chill—immediately seemed to magnify.

Monica shivered, drawing her fur cloak around herself more tightly. It had been a gift from Alvor, and she had never been more grateful for anything else in her life. “ _There’s nothing like a Skyrim winter_ ,” he’d said when she’d tried to protest that it was too much, that she could never accept it. “ _You’ll need it_.” Hadvar had chuckled when she draped it over her shoulders the moment they’d opened the door, but she didn’t care. Even in the pre-dawn chill, she realized, she wasn’t cold—whereas Hadvar was constantly rubbing his arms through the thin sleeves of his shirt—when he thought she wasn’t looking, of course.

She shifted beneath the folds of her cloak, allowing her fingertips to trail over the hilt of Alvor’s _other_ gift. She’d nearly teared up when he’d presented it to her—even with her limited training, she could recognize the quality of the craftsmanship and amount of work put into it. The steel dagger was perfectly balanced with a razor-thin edge, its hilt uniquely forged to fit her grip.

“ _Don’t be afraid to defend yourself, you hear?_ ” Alvor had said anxiously as she’d tentatively drawn it for the first time, admiring how natural it felt in her grip, as though it were an extension of her hand itself. “ _Imperial law tends to be a little looser outside of Cyrodiil. Almost always better to strike first and ask questions later._ ” She’d promised that she would, but even so, the thought of plunging the blade into another living, breathing, _bleeding_ creature made her ill. She was desperately praying that nothing she encountered in her travels would come to that, but just the same, having it by her side made her feel the tiniest bit safer.

She found herself breathing easier once the sun came up, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, warily watching for the  flash of dragon’s wings. She experienced a horrible fright on several occasions when a simple bird happed to lazily pass overhead, but other than that, the skies remained clear, and she and Hadvar pressed on. They were near the foot of the mountain, and as the trees began to thin, the great tundra of Whiterun spread out before them. Their pace was slow—despite his protests, she could tell he was still favoring his injured ankle—but even so, she could see the distant outline of the city drawing nearer and nearer.

In the afternoon, they finally reached the Whiterun stables. While Hadvar went inside to finalize their arrangements, Monica hung back, leaning on the rails of the fence to watch the horses. None of them were particularly well-bred, but they all appeared strong and healthy—their muscles rippled and their coats glistened in the sun. Watching them graze, she suddenly felt a burst of nostalgia, and found herself longing for home. Battlehorn’s horses were famous; large, powerful, and aggressive, they were sought by nobles—and by the Legion for use as warhorses.

She heard the clatter of the door, and looked up to see Hadvar approaching, his stride quick and deliberate. Somehow, it made his limp seem more pronounced, she noted sadly as he drew closer.

“There’s a carriage to Solitude leaving in just a few minutes,” he said cheerfully as he approached. “And the next one to Riften is at eight tomorrow morning.” He paused, and a scowl creased his brow. “Will you be all right here by yourself?” he asked worriedly. “There’ll be another one tomorrow if you want me to stay.”

She smiled in spite of herself, shaking her head. “Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Really, I will.”

Hadvar’s frown eased slightly, but she could read the concern hidden in his features. “Are you sure?” he asked warily. “It’s no trouble.”

“Of course.” She nodded over her shoulder toward the throng of passengers lining up in preparation to climb aboard. “I’m going to be living here anyway, aren’t I? I don’t see the difference one night will make.”

That seemed to get through to him. His face relaxed, and his smile returned. “Of course,” he sighed. “I just worry.” For a moment, his smile faltered, and she caught a glimpse of the guilty expression he’d been staring at her with for the past month, but then he was speaking again.

“When you have a permanent address, write to me immediately,” he said. “Send it to Castle Dour, and wherever I am, they’ll get it to me.” He offered a hand to shake, and she took it.

“I will,” she promised. “Thank you, Hadvar. For…” She hesitated, unsure of how to put it into words. For bringing her to Sigrid and Alvor, for allowing her to stay—and for her very life. “For everything,” she quickly finished. She uncomfortably glanced away, but not before she saw his face darken.

“No,” he said quietly. “I should be the one to thank you.”

She frowned, puzzled, but when she met his gaze again, the question on her lips, he was slipping back into the crisp, official Legionnaire she’d met in Helgen, and she lost her nerve. “Good luck, Aretino,” he said. “Take care of yourself, and don’t forget to write.”

And then he was gone, turning around only once to wave as he climbed into the carriage. She stood in front of the stable for a while longer, watching until it was merely a blur on the horizon.

* * *

 

 Whiterun was a charming city, with its high peaked roofs and intricate carvings ever-present in the architecture. But while the hustle and bustle should have been exciting, Monica found it entirely overwhelming. As she was jostled along the streets by other pedestrians, her panic rose, her blood pumping quicker through her veins, and she found herself darting through the door of the first inn she saw. She paid the publican with shaking hands and fled to the room she’d rented, slamming the door behind her and sinking to the ground with her back planted firmly against it, waiting until her breathing returned to normal again.

As it turned out, though, it was even harder to sleep here than it had been in Bruma. The guests here were considerably louder, and after the quiet solitude of Riverwood, the racket from out in the street was comparable to that of a mob. She finally drifted off into a wary sleep as the noise began to die off, only to be ripped out by a nightmare a few mere hours later.

She was sullen and groggy as she rose and dressed, and to her dismay, she discovered that her arms were covered with ragged gashes—she’d been scratching at the scars in her sleep. Although it wasn’t raining yet, the dark skies outside matched the hollows under her eyes, and she had a feeling it was only a matter of time—just one more factor to make this day truly terrible. Downstairs, she paid the publican way too much for a bowl of porridge before bracing herself and once again heading out into the frantic streets.

She reached the stables in record time—far too early, but she preferred it that way; anything would be better than a repeat of Bruma. She spent nearly an hour hunched against the wind as she waited, but despite her apprehension, she felt a jolt of excitement as the carriage began to roll west down the road. Finally— _finally_ —she was back on track, and in a matter of days, Aventus would be free—although the good feeling faded slightly as she remembered everything that lay between them and home.

They stopped for the night in a shabby little town, and while the driver saw to the horses, she and the other passengers filed into the town’s only inn under the watchful gaze of its shifty-eyed publican. Although the room she spent the night was clean, it was little more than a cramped, windowless alcove with a cot wedged in it, and she passed the night fitfully, too afraid to fall asleep lest she fail to awaken with the sun.

It was a blessing in disguise, then, that the couple in the room next to her was bickering fiercely, and as soon as she would drift off, she would be woken by a particularly vocal outburst. And when she heard the door slam and the noise fade down the hallway, she knew it was time to get up.

The main room of the inn was strangely empty as she passed through, and she sighed to herself, realizing she wouldn’t be able to buy breakfast. Thanks to Sigrid and her overzealous preparations, she still had food left over, but she’d been hoping for something _warm_. No matter, she reminded herself as she pushed open the door and headed toward the carriage. They’d reach Riften that night, and she was sure to find a hot meal there.

But the second day of travel passed even more slowly than the first, and when they finally rolled to a stop at the Riften stables deep in the night, food was the last thing on her mind. After two days without sleep, a dense haze clouded her senses, and she could feel her nerves wearing thin. All she wanted was to close her eyes—even just for a few moments—but as she passed through the gates of Riften, the sight that met her was enough to draw her from the fog.

The buildings were weathered and in various states of disrepair, but it wasn’t the humble surroundings that bothered her. It was the people—although few were out this late at night, they all had a certain _look_ that made her distinctly nervous. Ragged clothing, hoods drawn up, hollow eyes and blank expressions—all this contributed to an overall sense of unease, saturated in the stench rising from the canals that cut through the city. And by the way the way the man lurking in the shadows of a nearby building was eyeing her, she was about to get her purse cut—or her throat slit.

Her stride quickened, although it took all her willpower to keep it brisk rather than panicked. The swaying sign of an inn was just up ahead—as long as no faceless attacker leapt out at her in the next thirty strides, she’d be safe.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as her hand closed on the door’s handle, the tension draining from her muscles as she darted through the doorway. It was hardly better in here, though—if anything, it was worse. It was dimly lit with flickering, evil-looking shadows, but the worst was the noise—music, shouting, and a very frantic-looking priest excitedly waving his arms. For a moment, she was tempted to turn around and head right back out, but in here, she reminded herself, there were witnesses—and the guards would no doubt descend in a second if anyone were seen trying to drag her body out the front door. And at that thought, she couldn’t help but let out a silent huff of laughter.

“Running a little light in the pockets, lass?”

She shuddered away from the voice that had suddenly appeared beside her ear, her heart giving a lurch as adrenaline surged through her veins. The voice’s owner merely watched her, eyebrows raised as she choked on her fear, and she managed to croak out, “What?”

“Your pockets.” To her horror, he edged closer, and she immediately shrank away. And to his credit, he didn’t push any further. “They’re a little low on coin.” The corners of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “I can tell.”

She stood frozen in place, staring up at him as her heart slowly settled back into its normal rhythm. And as she managed to fill her lungs with air, she felt a scowl form across her face. “Leave me alone.”

She made a move to sweep past him, but suddenly he was in front of her, blocking her path. Her heart began to accelerate again, and her thoughts flew to Alvor’s dagger, dangling just inches from her fingertips. “Please move,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, but he shook his head.

“Hear me out first,” he said, and as he lifted his hand, something jingled, and her breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her side, and her eyes widened in horror—empty.

“Give it back.” Her voice was rising with the tide of pure panic, her gaze locked onto the coinpurse— _her_ coinpurse—clutched in his grasp.

“I will.” He met her gaze levelly. “But not yet.”

How had he gotten hold of it? She hadn’t felt a thing, and he hadn’t been nearly close enough—had he? She glanced desperately around her—surely somebody was seeing this. Surely someone would _do something._ But no one appeared to be paying any attention, their gazes fastened coolly on their drinks or on their companions. She could feel the tears starting, and she was barely managing to cling onto the fringes of her composure. Without the money, all was lost. She’d never get Aventus back home. Her hand shaking, she slowly curled her fingers around the hilt of the dagger.

The motion didn’t go unnoticed by the stranger, his eyes flickering to her side and then back again. “You’re going to stab me, then?” he chuckled. “Here, in the middle of a full tavern?” The intensity of his stare increased, and she gripped the dagger a little tighter. “Money won’t do you much good if you land yourself in prison.” He smirked, and she took a deep shuddering breath.

“If I don’t get that back,” she said, drawing the dagger half an inch from its sheath, “it won’t matter either way.” She hated the way her voice wobbled, _hated_ the way her eyes were now stinging with tears. He could probably see that she was crying, she realized, and her grip grew white knuckles.

Without warning, his hands lunged out toward her. She recoiled, feeling her shoulders collide with the wall as she heaved herself backward, a thousand horrible memories flashing across her vision—flames fear fire pain heat _fear_. But when she sucked in a breath and reality came flooding back, his hand was curled around hers, and when he withdrew it, she recognized the familiar weight of her coinpurse in her hand once again.

Shooting him the mightiest glare she could muster, she returned the coinpurse to its proper place at her side. As her trembling fingers struggled with the fastenings, she noticed him still watching with a look of strange fascination. “You should have two,” he said suddenly, and she looked up. “Only put what you can afford to lose in the one you carry openly. Everything else goes in the other—and that one, you keep hidden.” He paused, and his expression softened then, slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she snapped. The edge was returning to her voice, she noted with relief, and as she drew in another breath, she felt the courage flowing back through her veins. Lifting her chin defiantly, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”

He smirked, and she stubbornly stared him down, finally able to get a good look at him. He was well-dressed, both in the quality and craftsmanship of his clothing—whoever his tailor was, they clearly knew their trade. But there was something off about the _way_ he wore them, and his face was worn and weather-roughened. He may have been dressed like one, but clearly this man was no noble, and as he spoke, he confirmed her suspicions.

“I’ve got a bit of an errand to perform,” he said nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just lifted her coinpurse and frightened her out of her wits. “But I need an extra pair of hands.” He shifted closer, and she tensed slightly. “And in my line of work,” he quirked an eyebrow, “extra hands are well-paid.”

It took her a moment to understand what he meant, and when the realization hit her, she stiffened, taking half a step back. “But you’re a _thief_ ,” she blurted out, emphasizing the last word. His sly grin faltered for a moment, and her brow creased into a deep frown. “I don’t think I can help you,” she said, as forcefully as she could manage, praying desperately that he would take the hint.

And miraculously, he did. He straightened up, his expression going blank, and shifted a step away. “Sorry,” he said. He made a _hmph_ sound. “I usually have nose for this kind of thing.” He began to back away, then paused. “But if you ever change your mind,” he added, “you can find me in the market.” And then he was gone, melting into the crowd, as though he hadn’t even been there in the first place.

She exhaled, and as the tension drained from her limbs, she began to tremble. Quickly realizing she was on the verge of turning into a weeping puddle on the floor, she instead hurried forward, pressing through the crowd toward the bar. What a horrible man, she thought desperately. What a horrible place this diseased little city was. Her solace came, however, in the knowledge that in a matter of hours, she would have Aventus in tow and be on the way back to Whiterun. And from there, it would only be a matter of getting in touch with Hadvar—and waiting.

But upstairs in her rented room, her agitation refused to fade, even after she had wedged a chair beneath the door handle and was tucked safe in bed. Her encounter with the thief had shaken her to the core, and furthermore, it had just occurred to her that she was actually about to come face to face with Aventus. This long, painful quest had taken so much from her, and somewhere along the way, she had forgotten just how daunting her primary objective was.

But sleep finally found her, and when she shot bolt upright in bed, the cold glint of the black dragon’s eyes fading from her vision, the room was flooded with the golden sunlight of late morning. And as she slowly rose and dressed, she noted that she felt better. Not a lot better, but she’d actually gotten a decent chunk of sleep: six or seven hours, at least—the longest since…

Well, since before she’d left Battlehorn, but she wasn’t about to dwell on that now. She finished tying back her hair, nervously smoothing a few remaining knotted strands before tugging on her boots, and with a final deep breath for courage, she was off.

* * *

 

Riften, as it turned out, was much less threatening in the daylight. It was a clear autumn day, bright and sunny with just the faintest chill in the breeze, and although she was constantly glancing over her shoulder, she didn’t feel the same blind panic as she had last night. Thanks to the publican’s directions, she found the orphanage easily enough, only taking one or two wrong turns, which she quickly corrected. But her heart nervously fluttered as she approached Honorhall Orphanage’s front door, her palms going slick with sweat.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find inside—perhaps orphans running everywhere, or the sounds of children at play. Instead, however, it was quiet, not a soul in sight. The front room was suspiciously bare, she noted warily, but from somewhere in the building, she heard the sound of a raised voice. Frowning, she crept closer to listen.

“Oh!” There was a gasp of surprise and a sudden clatter, and Monica jumped, just as startled as the other person who’d entered the room.

“I’m sorry!” She immediately knelt beside the dark-haired woman, helping her pick up the stack of wooden plates she’d dropped. But the woman hardly seemed to notice.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” she said nervously, glancing toward the nearby closed door, the sounds of an apparent one-sided argument still echoing from behind it. “I’m sorry, but the children aren’t up for adoption right now, and I…” She hesitated. “You should go,” she finished firmly. She stood, and Monica rose with her, handing her the rest of the plates.

“Oh, I’m not here to adopt,” she said quickly. “My name is Monica Aretino. I’m here to collect my cousin.”

To her shock, the woman’s eyes went wide with horror, and she slowly backed away. “A-Aret-tino?” she stammered out. Monica simply stared at her, not understanding. The woman set down the plates and drew in a breath. “I…I really don’t… I shouldn’t…” She shook her head. “Wait here, please.” And she vanished through the door, the noise intensifying for a moment as she passed through.

Monica once again stood alone in the empty room, her heart beginning to pound with low and ominous throbbing. Something was wrong, she realized. The woman’s reaction to her last name had been inexplicable, and there was something off about this place itself: the grim atmosphere, the woman’s fear, the outburst happening in the other room.

Without warning, the door bounced off its hinges, and she started again, her heart sputtering even more frantically. A grey-haired woman stalked through the doorway, her strides deliberate and menacing as she stormed across the room. Stopping just inches from Monica’s face, she barked out a single word. “ _What?_ ”

Taken aback, she could only blink for a moment, suddenly forgetting how to speak. “Are…are you Grelod?” she managed to stammer out, and the woman’s scowl deepened.

“Yes,” she snapped. “Now is that all you came in here for?”

“No.” Monica felt a quick spark of irritation, and she took a deep breath, focusing her words more clearly. “I’m Aventus Aretino’s cousin. I’ve come to bring him home.”

If the other woman’s reaction had been alarming, Grelod’s was even worse. She simply stared blankly, no spark of recognition or acknowledgement.

“Who?” she asked flatly, and Monica felt her heart spike.

“Aventus Aretino,” she repeated, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. “He was brought here from Windhelm in First Seed. My mother is Guinevere Aretino—his legal guardian. It should all be in the letter the jarl sent…”

But the woman gave a huff, rolling her eyes. “Listen here, young lady,” she said sharply. “There’s no child here by that name, and there never has been. You’ve wasted my time, and now you’re going to leave.”

Somehow, all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. “That’s not possible,” she said desperately. “It was all in the letter, I have it right here…” Only, she realized as she spoke, that letter was lost somewhere in the Jerall mountains. Not that it mattered, though—she could see the finality in Grelod’s eyes.

“I said, _leave_ ,” she growled. “Or I’m calling the guards.”

She could hear her own breathing growing ragged, even as the cold horror spread through her. She barely even felt the hand on her arm as the nervous woman she’d initially met gently tugged her away from Grelod. “He _has_ to be here!” she shouted, even as the other woman shut the door in her face. “ _Where is he?_ ” She stumbled back, gasping, unable to even begin to comprehend the situation. A spike of rage abruptly blasted through the numbness, and she yanked at the door handle. Finding it locked, she lashed out, slamming her fist into it and grinding her teeth in satisfaction as it quivered beneath the force.

“Hey!”

Her head whipped to the side at the shout, her fury ebbing slightly in favor of confusion as she saw that there was no one there.

“ _Hey._ ” It was softer this time, an insistent hiss. “Over here!”

Frowning slightly to herself, she stepped over to the stone wall surrounding the perimeter of the orphanage. “Hello?” she called uncertainly.

There was a scuffling, followed by whispers of “ _ow_ ,” “ _be careful_ ,” and “ _quiet!_ ” Then, the voice came again.

“Are you that lady from inside?” It was a child’s voice, soft, yet full of urgency. “The one who was arguing with Grelod?” Monica’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes?” she replied hesitantly. She stared at the blank surface of the wall before her, waiting for the response. There was a pause, but the voice finally spoke again.

“Is it true?” The voice was still careful, but now it bore a note of excitement. “Are you really looking for Aventus Aretino?”

Monica inadvertently let out a gasp, eagerly leaning in closer. “Yes!” she hissed back. “Do you know him? Where is he?” Her heart was still pounding, but now from triumph rather than fear as the whole ugly situation began to make just the tiniest bit of sense. Aventus had been here. She hadn’t gone mad, or been misinformed. He’d been here. This girl knew him.

The silence stretched out just a little too long before the girl spoke again. “Well…” She hesitated, and Monica felt the frenzied grin that had spread across her face falter.

“He’s gone.” Another voice spoke up, and she felt the grip of fear. “He left about a month ago.”

“He _left_?” She recognized the edge in her tone, but didn’t bother attempting to soften it. “How could he just _leave_? Where would he go?” A new fear crept forward, and she heard her voice threatening to break as she asked, “Did someone _take_ him?” Another silence fell, and this time she could hear the whispers—hushed, frantic deliberating.

“It’s not fair.” A third voice, muffled and cracking with poorly-disguised tears, and she wondered if this had been the target of Grelod’s wrath. “The way she treats us…it’s just not fair.” There was a sniffle. “Aventus was the only one who did anything about it.”

There were more questions than answers here. Monica shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pounding behind them. “What did he do?” she asked quietly, dreading what the answer would be. Again, there was a series of whispers before she got her reply, but finally, the third child spoke.

“He said he was going to do the Black Sacrament,” The boy’s voice was stronger now, the tears fading. “You know, to call the Dark Brotherhood. So they’d come and kill old Grelod!”

Nothing could have prepared her for that response.

She leaned back against the stone wall, all the breath pulled from her lungs, her jaw slack and eyes wide. _The_ _Dark Brotherhood_. Professional killers-for-hire, said to worship Daedra. Aventus was only a child; if he actually managed to contact them…

“Listen,” she began carefully, willing her voice to remain steady. “I need to find him. I need to take him home. If you know where he is, please, tell me.”

She was once again met by silence, but she could hear the whispers as they conferred amongst each other. Finally, the first voice—the girl’s—spoke up. “He said he was going home,” she said slowly. “Back to Windhelm.”

“Word on the street is that people have heard strange chanting coming from his house.” The third voice had taken on a note of dark awe. “He’s really doing it!”

Her breath came in a gasp as relief washed over her, the cold numbness fading. At least now she had _something_ —she had a lead. “Thank you,” she blurted out, stumbling over her words. “Thank you, I—thank you.” And she darted away from the wall, moving through the traffic of the city as swiftly as she dared, all the way to the city gates and beyond.

The stablemaster was sitting outside, oiling a piece of leather as she approached, and her heart clenched as she marched toward him. “Please,” she said breathlessly. “Tell me there’s a carriage to Windhelm.”


	9. The Belly of the Beast

It had begun to snow by the time she arrived in Windhelm, and as she crossed the long stone bridge to the city, tiny flakes drifted down and settled on her cloak. She was buried in it once again, her hood drawn up to protect her face from the worst of the winds whipping across the open water. But the weather was the last thing on her mind as the gates of the city drew nearer and nearer.

Windhelm was Ulfric’s city, she knew, and the quiet voice that had been reminding her of that fact since she’d boarded the carriage in Riften had turned into a warning scream. Memories were roaring up from the deepest dark corners of her memory, but _no_ , she told herself, she had to force them down. She had to resist. She had no idea what she’d find when she reached the Aretino house, but whatever was there, she _had_ to be ready.

Beneath her cloak, her hand closed over the hilt of her dagger. If Aventus had actually managed to make contact, she thought grimly, she very well might need it. A better idea, some part of her consciousness suggested, would be to find the city guards and have them investigate. But given the situation, that would more likely be more trouble than it was worth. And regardless, she thought with a prickle of fear, she would never dare approach anyone who owed allegiance to Ulfric Stormcloak. And so she strode forward, despite the gates that loomed ahead like the jaws of a trap, ready to spring shut on her the moment she set foot inside.

As she entered the city, she was struck by how _cold_ it was. The towering stone walls shielded the city from the flesh-peeling winds, but they radiated a chill of their own, grim and ancient, silent as the grave.

Or perhaps not so silent, as her attention was immediately captured by the scuffle taking place up ahead. Two tall men—Nords, she assumed—had cornered a smaller, hooded figure. Noticing them swaying with inebriation, she began to walk a little faster, ducking her head down and giving them a wide berth. “You come here where you’re not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!” one of them was snarling as she began to skirt around them.

“It’s not out fight.” The reply was brusque, and when she stole a glance at the hooded figure, she caught a glimpse of red eyes glittering in the lantern light.

The second Nord scoffed, leaning in closer and forcing the Dunmer to step back. “Maybe the reason these grey-skins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies.”

She froze in her steps at those words. _“She’s the one, the spy…”_

Her throat tightening, she closed her hand around the dagger hilt, even as her knees began to quiver. Fighting the urge to turn and flee straight out the city gates, she heard Alvor’s words echoing in her head: _strike first, ask questions later…_

But the Dunmer’s reply contained no fear, only weariness. “You can’t be serious,” she sighed, her voice flat. “Imperial spies now, is it?”

“Maybe we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy.” And Monica’s heart gave a lurch as the first Nord suddenly lunged toward the Dunmer. “We got ways of finding out what you really are,” he taunted menacingly. And then, to her utter relief, he and his companion drew back, turning and sauntering away in the direction of a nearby tavern.

The Dunmer growled under her breath, a few phrases Monica vaguely recognized. Then she seemed to notice her standing there, and her posture immediately stiffened. “Got a problem?” she snapped.

Monica froze, quickly shaking her head, and the Dunmer heaved a long sigh. “You’ve come to the wrong city then,” she muttered, and Monica ventured a half-step forward.

“Are you all right?” she asked quietly. The Dunmer’s eyebrows rose.

“You mean that?” She pointed toward the tavern, where the two Nords had been joined by a third, laughing raucously at some unheard joke. “Nothing new there.” Monica couldn’t help but note the raw bitterness in her tone. “Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don’t care much for us, but Rolff is by far the worst. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Grey Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning.” She rolled her eyes. “A real charmer, that one.”

“I’d noticed.” Apparently her curt reply was amusing to the Dunmer, as she let out a short bark of laughter.

“Watch yourself in Windhelm, then,” she said, her tone warming considerably. “It’s a haven of prejudice and narrow thinking.” She sighed. “Take care.” She moved to continue on down the street, but Monica quickly spoke up.

“Wait,” she blurted out, thinking of the maps she’d lost in the Jeralls. “Could you point me in the direction of the Aretino house?”

The woman paused, turning back toward her. “Sure,” she said, pointing down a nearby street. “You’re going to head down that way until you reach the fork, then to the left up the hill, and the house’ll on your left. You can’t miss it; it’s—”

“—the one that spans across the street. I know.” And Monica smiled to herself as she set off in the direction the woman had indicated, her feet kicking up the powdery drifting snow.

Back in the winter of 189, Giovanni Aretino had suddenly been struck with the urge to return to his childhood home so she and Guinevere could meet his family. And seeing as the Pale Pass was blocked by ice and snow, they had been forced to take the long way, traveling west across Cyrodiil and through Morrowind, and then by ship to Windhelm. Monica remembered how frustrated Guinevere had been by the entire situation, continually demanding to know why Giovanni couldn’t just wait until spring. But in a small border town, his intentions were finally made clear as Monica watched her father propose to her mother in the very spot they had met.

Both of Giovanni’s parents had been dead since the war, but they were greeted by his brother Apelles, along with his wife Naalia. Her parents had been married here in Windhelm, actually, although their stay had been short, only a couple of days. Her memories of that time here had long since faded, but there were small, clear details she remembered—Naalia’s smile, the austere atmosphere of the temple…and the fact that Giovanni’s family home had been constructed so that it formed a bridge over the street.

Sure enough, she recognized the house immediately, rising up ahead out of the dark winter gloom. As she stood in the empty street, snow swirling around her feet, she was suddenly overcome by a burst of nostalgia. Giovanni had carried her on his shoulders as they’d approached the house, allowing her to see out over the throngs of pedestrians as Guinevere’s bright blue hood bobbed anxiously beside them. Her mother had been sick with worry that the Aretinos wouldn’t approve of a half-Breton tailor marrying into them, a fear that had developed within the hour of Giovanni’s proposal and only seemed to grow the closer they got to Windhelm. For a moment, Monica almost smiled—then she recalled the purpose behind her visit here.

The house appeared dark and still, though she wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or bad. Stepping into the shelter of the overhang, she slowly reached out with a shaking hand and tried the door handle. Locked, as expected. She turned and slumped against the door in defeat, feeling her heart thumping quietly against her ribs as that familiar queasiness grew in her midsection. Suddenly, rushing off to Windhelm in a hurry as she’d done seemed rather foolish. What had she expected to find here? She had no way of knowing if Aventus had even made it to Windhelm in the first place. In fact, she thought grimly, she might have had better luck asking to see if there’d been any boys found dead alongside the road recently. Her heart began to speed up at that thought, and she suddenly felt light-headed. Riften appeared to be dangerous enough—what if he had never even made it out of the city?

But before she could work herself into a full frenzy, she happened to glance to the side—and notice something peculiar about the window. Frowning, she stepped closer and ran her fingers along the edge of the frame, sucking in a breath when she realized it was gapped open, as if it hadn’t been secured properly. Surely the city guards would have made sure the house was closed up before they escorted Aventus away? She felt sicker than ever, but it was too late to turn back now. Sliding her fingers along the gap, she pried up hard—and let out a gasp of relief when it swung open.

Climbing through the window was a challenge—clutching the sill, she managed to toe her way up the side of the house and heave herself over the edge. At least she was able to catch hold of the frame before she crashed to the floor, and landed with only small thump. Batting the heavy curtain aside, she rose to her feet and looked around the room. The last time she’d been here, it’d been bursting with light and warmth, the polished wood practically glowing and the smell of that night’s dinner wafting through the hallways. Now, however, it stood cold and empty, all the furniture cleared away and debris littering the floor, her breath turning to white plumes as it was released. No assassin had leapt out to murder her yet, which had to be a good sign—but although the room was dark, she caught sight of a flicker of light from beyond the door at the top of the stairs.

Gulping, she started forward, willing the stairs not to creak beneath her feet. It was freezing in this house, yet she was starting to perspire, her fur cloak suddenly seeming too heavy. Beneath its folds, she had a death grip on the dagger. As she drew closer, she could hear voices, too, a low whisper. Divines preserve her, this was not good. This was very bad.

Swallowing hard, she nudged open the door at the top with her free hand. This room, too, was empty—miraculously so, but she could see the glow of candlelight spilling out from an ajar door further down the hall. And she could hear the voice more clearly now, too.

It was low, hardly a mummer, but she could still make out the words. “ _Sweet mother, sweet mother,_ _send your child unto me_ ,” it intoned. “ _For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear_.”

A cold sweat of dread was breaking out all over her body, the back of her neck prickling as silent tears formed in her eyes. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that it wasn’t too late, that she could still flee and go call the guards, but she pushed it down. She’d come this far—through _everything_ —and she would see this to the end, despite her shaking legs and erratic heart. She only had to _know_ , really know for certain.

Inching forward, she started toward the door, easing her dagger from its sheath. “ _Sweet mother, sweet mother,_ ” the voice continued, “ _send your child unto me_.” Closer, closer still. The roaring in her ears threatened to drown out the words. “ _For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear_.” And she edged around the corner, her free hand flying to her mouth at the sight before her.

A circle of candles surrounded what appeared to be a human skeleton—and a small figure crouched over it, methodically striking with a dagger. “Sweet mother, sweet mother,” he breathed feverishly, “send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”

She stood still in horror, hardly believing what she saw. The Black Sacrament, that boy in Riften had called it. A ritual to summon the Dark Brotherhood. She eyed the empty eye hollows of the skull, suddenly feeling sick. At least he was alive, she reminded herself desperately. He was alive and safe. And as for this whole situation…

Summoning all her courage, she drew in a breath and managed to croak out a single word. “Aventus?”

There was a clatter as the dagger fell from his hand, and she froze in place as the boy’s head whipped toward her. For a full second he simply stared at her in silence—and then she tensed as he clambered to his feet. “You came!”

She blinked, confused, as the boy’s face lit up like the summer sky. They hadn’t had any contact with Naalia since before the onset of her illness—they’d never had the chance to send word to Aventus that they’d be coming for him, and besides, he’d never actually _met_ her. How could he possibly know who she was? But he was still speaking.

“It worked.” There was a note of awe in his voice—and was she detecting a trace of fear? “I did it over and over.” He pointed to his handiwork on the floor. “The Black Sacrament. And here you are!”

As he stared at her wide-eyed, her stomach turned over on itself, her horror quickly returning as she realized just who he thought she was.

“Aventus, it’s Monica.” Her voice shook a little, but she struggled to keep it firm. “Your cousin. I’m not an assassin.”

The boy’s face went blank, and it faintly occurred to her that she was meeting her young cousin for the first time. Gods, he looked so much Giovanni—it was downright eerie. He had the same slightly-wavy black hair and dark, serious eyes—although he’d inherited the pale Nord skin of his mother, with a dusting of freckles sprinkled across his nose. It made sense, though—from what she remembered of Apelles, he and Giovanni could have passed for twins, despite being born nine years apart.

But the boy was balefully staring her down, and she knew she had to get the situation under control—and do so quickly. “Aunt Guinevere’s daughter?” she ventured. “And Uncle Giovanni’s?” She edged half a step closer, forcing a smile to her lips. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. We didn’t even know she was sick.” She swallowed, feeling suddenly earnest. “We only got the news in Sun’s Height, and I…I came as fast as I could.”

He stood frozen in place, and as she watched, his eyes slowly widened. “Monica?” His tone reflected both suspicion and astonishment, but the hostility was fading. “It’s you?” The last hint of disbelief was fading from his voice, and she nodded, breathing a long, shaky sigh of relief.

“It’s me,” she whispered, even as the tears started to prickle in her eyes. At long last, it was finally over. The long, painful quest had reached its end, her goal fulfilled. She’d gotten Aventus.

“How did you find me?” he asked, suddenly wary again.

“Your friends in Riften told me,” she answered, inching another step forward. “The headmistress wouldn’t speak to me. She wouldn’t even admit that you’d ever been there.”

His expression soured. “Grelod,” he spat, with a venom surprising for one so young. “They call her ‘the Kind,’ but she’s not. She’s evil and cruel, and she’s terrible! To all of us!” He was turning bright red as his voice rose, and Monica couldn’t help but notice his clenched fists—and the tremor in his voice.

“It’s all right,” she said, even though her own mind was reeling. “You’re all right now.” Even as she spoke, her gaze was fastened on the skull’s empty sockets.

Aventus seemed to be aware of where her attention was focused, as he quickly fell silent. “It’s not what it looks like,” he began, but she interrupted.

“I know what it is,” she told him flatly, stepping forward toward the circle of candles. The pure terror she’d felt had faded the moment she’d seen him; the horror following as they’d spoken. Now, she was simply weary, as though her previous torrid emotions had sapped all her strength—and strangely disappointed. “Aventus…”

“You don’t understand!” he cried out. “She’s a monster. Someone like her doesn’t deserve to live even another day!”

“Where did you even _get_ all of this?” she demanded. Up close, it was an even grislier sight—a scattering of bones arranged into a haphazard skeleton—and bits of something that looked suspiciously like flesh. There was a smell, too, she realized, and fought to keep from gagging.

“From Helgird.” His tone had grown smug, and when she turned back to face him, she saw a hint of defiance cross his features.

“And Helgird is…?”

“The priestess in the Hall of the Dead.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and she gaped at him in horror.

“A _priestess_ is helping you try to contact the _Dark Brotherhood_?”

His gaze shifted guiltily away at that. “She doesn’t know I took it,” he mumbled. “She’s an old lady, sometimes she forgets to lock the door…”

“ _Aventus!_ ”

“I know!” His expression had turned pleading. “I’m sorry!”

“Honestly, I don’t know what the worst part is.” She shook her head. “That you stole from the Hall of the Dead, or that you tried to contact a…a cult of killers—or that you seem to think it’s perfectly reasonable to have a woman _murdered_!”

“You don’t know what it was like!” he shouted back “She’s the meanest person in the world! She beats us, and we only get one meal a day! And she locks us in the _room_!” He was growing more frantic by the moment, shoulders heaving, voice growing hoarse. “I _hate_ her!”

Monica slumped against the wall, burying her face in her hand. “Aventus,” she said quietly, “the world is full of people like Grelod. And do they deserve to die? Maybe. I don’t know. But that’s not your decision to make.”

“But it’s _not right_ ,” he protested hotly, face darkening with fury.

“Aventus,” she interrupted, “look around you.” She gestured toward the remains of his ritual, rotting flesh scattered among ancient bones, thin wisps of smoke rising as the candles sputtered out into thick puddles of wax. “How long have you been doing this for? A month?” And for once, the boy was silent.

“No one is coming, Aventus,” she said gently. “The Dark Brotherhood is not going to show up and agree to kill Grelod. You can’t hire assassins by just by chanting a few words and…doing all this. You have to be someone important—to have influence.” She paused. “And do you realize how much money it would cost? Thousands of septims. Maybe even more than that.”

For a moment his face filled with anguish—then his shoulders slumped in defeat. She inhaled slowly.

“You can’t stay here, not all by yourself in a big empty house,” she said. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it. She’d want you to come home with me and Aunt Guinevere. I know Cyrodiil’s far away and it’s scary, but it’s not so bad.” She smiled thinly. “Wait until you see Battlehorn. I’ll take you up on the battlements—you can see out over the entire Great Forest. On clear days, you can even see all the way to White Gold Tower.”

He stood with his head bowed, and she stepped over to him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. “It’s only for a few years,” she said. “Time will fly, and before you know it, you’ll be of age, and you’ll get to come home.”

And finally—mercifully—the boy began to nod. 

* * *

 

It took only a few minutes to gather his things. He didn’t have much, only some pieces of clothing and a pair of toy soldiers, along with a knapsack he clutched tightly to his chest. Neither of them spoke as they made their way through the streets, hunched against the biting cold and the snow that was beginning to dust the ground and rooftops, giving the city a faint ghostly glow.

She didn’t even bother asking for a room at the inn—there were only a few septims jingling in the coinpurse she’d shoved up her sleeve, and even fewer in the one at her belt. Instead, she quietly ushered Aventus up the stairs to the tavern’s main room.

It was mostly deserted, with the few patrons left passed out over their mugs of ale, and only the occasional burst of noise from the far side of the room, where a cluster of armor-clad patrons sat as a woman in a bright green dress served them drinks.

But despite the low-key crowd, there were several familiar blue sashes among them, and Monica felt the back of her neck prickle. Despite the warmth from the roaring fire, she sat wearing her cloak with the hood drawn up. The chances were probably slim, she told herself, that she’d encountered any of them up in the Jeralls. How many had been captured by the Imperials—and out of them, how many had even managed to make it out of Helgen? But of those who had, how many would have made it back here? How many would be able to recognize her?

She was beginning to feel light-headed, her hands gone clammy. Some faint—yet feral—stirring in the back of her mind told her to run, to get up and take off out of the inn as fast as her feet would carry her. And she might have—if not for that fact that Aventus was nodding off in the chair across from her. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the worn surface of the table as her other hand balled into a fist, nails digging into her palm. This was no time for fear, she sternly reminded herself. She had to stay strong—for Aventus.

The server passed by their table again, pausing as she stared down at Aventus. “Poor thing,” she said sympathetically, her gaze shifting to Monica. “Long journey?”

“Too long,” Monica agreed wearily. It was simpler to leave it at that—and it wasn’t even that far from the truth. The woman glanced over her shoulder as another burst of noise erupted from the far table, then leaned in closer.

“You know,” she murmured, “if you don’t have a room for the night, you can let him lie down in the kitchen. There’s nobody down there until Nils comes in at eight.”

“Are you sure?” Monica leaned forward. “I…” There was suddenly a lump in her throat. “Thank you. I truly appreciate it.” She glanced over to Aventus’ dozing form. “We both do.”

The woman gave a light chuckle. “There’s no need for thanks,” she said, as Monica rose and began to collect her belongings. “It’s just a pile of sacks on the floor—not really much of an offer.”

“Oh, no—it is,” Monica refuted, sending a pointed glare toward the noisy group across the room as she nudged Aventus’ shoulder, jostling him awake.

“Huh?” The boy groggily lifted his head, eyes red and drooping, and she smiled a little to herself.

“Come on, wake up,” she urged. “Time to go lie down.” The woman laughed again as he instead dropped his head back down on his arms.

“Aventus, come _on_ ,” Monica groaned, tugging on his sleeve more insistently. “You don’t want to sit here like this all night, do you?” The boy made a noise halfway between a growl and a whimper, but he lifted his head again. “That’s it,” Monica encouraged as he pushed back from the table, his movements stiff and reluctant. “There you go.”

“My name’s Susanna, by the way,” the woman informed them as they followed her down a ladder in the far corner of the room. “If you need anything else, just let me know.” The kitchen they emerged in was small, with clutter crowding every available surface, but with a cheerful fire crackling. And sure enough, Susanna led them over to the far corner, where a heap of sacks had been piled.

Aventus immediately made a beeline for it, staggering across the room to flop down on it, burying his face in the scratchy material. Monica draped her cloak across him before sinking down in a nearby chair, once again making eye contact with Susanna. “Thank you.”

The words seemed to ring hollow—they could never be enough—but Susanna’s smile brightened. “Sleep well.” And then she was gone, ascending up the ladder.

Monica leaned forward on the table, resting her head on her arms—an imitation of Aventus’ earlier posture. Down here, it was nearly silent, with only an occasional pop from the fireplace or a low rumble of laughter from overhead to interrupt it. And with the heat and the low, lazy light, she could almost forget about the blue sashes upstairs. Almost.

But she was so drained. After the ordeal of getting to Aventus, she never would have thought finding him would be almost worse. She’d been so scared for him—so terrified of what could have happened. Yet that moment she’d walked through the door to see him in the midst of his grisly ritual…

And with a familiar flap of black wings, she jerked upright. She’d fallen asleep, she distantly noted, but when her bleary eyes made out the time on the clock above the mantel, she leapt from the chair. _Not again._

“Aventus,” she said, yanking back the cloak. “Wake up. We have to go. We have to go right now.” He sat up with a dazed expression, his hair sticking in every direction and the imprint of the sacks’ material blotched across his face. “ _Aventus!_ ” she cried when he didn’t budge. “Hurry! Let’s go!”

He grumbled something intelligible under his breath, casting an evil eye in her direction, but he stood up and began to tug on his shoes. “Here,” she said, thrusting his cloak and his knapsack into his arms. “Now come on.”

They exited through the far door and made their way down the hallway through the inn’s front room, Monica practically dragging Aventus the whole way. “If we miss this carriage,” she began, hand on the door—but the rest of the sentence was forgotten as she pushed it open, her jaw dropping at the sight that met her.

Windhelm had been smothered, the entire cityscape transformed into a stark white wasteland. An angry grey sky loomed overhead, still spitting out white flakes that stung as they whipped past on icy winds.

The publican let out a chuckle from behind the counter. “No carriages today,” she said. “The autumn snows have begun."


	10. The Autumn Snows Have Begun

Things _could_ be worse, after all—in theory, anyway. Monica sat slumped sideways in a chair by the fire, glaring up at the snow-darkened panes of the windows. It’d been several hours since they’d discovered they were stranded, and her mood was only continuing to worsen. The freak blizzard seemed to have taken everyone by surprise—“unseasonably early” was a phrase she heard continually echoed as other patrons began to slowly fill the inn.

Beside her, Aventus heaved a long sigh. “Monica, I’m _hungry_.” It was hardly a subtle demand, and she felt a twist of guilt.

“I know,” she replied wearily. In the light of day, the bones of his shoulders protruding through the fabric of his tunic were clearly visible, and her heart broke a little at the sight. “Me too. But I…” She trailed off with a sigh, nervously touching the coinpurse. “We can’t. Not right now.”

“We could go back to the house,” he suggested, his tone brightening ever so slightly. “I left some food there.”

“In the middle of a blizzard? And risk being seen climbing through the window in broad daylight?” She shook her head. “No. We can’t risk it.”

Aventus sighed, a hint of a growl behind it, but at that moment, Susanna appeared beside them with a plate bearing a freshly-baked sweet roll. “Good morning! How’s everyone doing?” she greeted. It was far too early and too cold for anyone to be that cheerful, but coming from Susanna, it felt genuine. “Thought you might be hungry.”

Aventus’ face lit up as she handed him the plate, his hands eagerly tearing into it and stuffing pieces into his mouth, even as Monica felt her eyes widen with panic.

“I can’t pay for that,” she hissed urgently, but Susanna brushed aside her protest.

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassured. “I’ll tell Nils I dropped one. He’ll never know any better.” She squinted up at the window. “Shame about the weather, hmm?”

Reminded of her current predicament, Monica also turned to glare at the storm. “I can’t believe this,” she muttered. “It’s only Frostfall; how…?”

“It’s been a bad year.” Susanna’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Belyn Hlaalu was just in here the other day complaining about how long it took to get started with planting this spring. I bet he’s tearing his hair out over this right now.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a long winter. And a hungry one.”

Monica slumped back in her chair in defeat. “So what are our chances of getting out of the city any time soon?” she asked dully, cringing in anticipation of the woman’s answer.

But Susanna looked merely thoughtful. “That depends,” she said, making a small _hmm_ sound. “If you’re headed north, you may be here a while. But they’ve already started clearing the streets, and I expect they’ll be starting on the roads by this afternoon.” She shrugged. “Normally they’re better prepared than this, but no one expected it this early. You’re probably looking at a few days, I’d say?”

Monica’s heart sank. “I see.” Her face must have betrayed her, however, as Susanna’s expression suddenly grew concerned.

“Or maybe sooner,” she added quickly. “It really all depends.” But the snow swirling angrily past the window undermined her attempts at reassurance.

* * *

 

The snow continued through the night, although in the fading twilight, the flakes appeared smaller, falling slower. Was it her imagination? Briefly closing her eyes, she sent a quick, silent prayer to Kynareth and Zenithar: _Please calm the skies, and let my coin last._ But she still awoke to a steady fall of sleet, a new layer of ice crusting over the snow from the day before.

It finally stopped late in the afternoon, and Monica allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, although the streets were still packed with an icy mess. By late evening, hunger finally got the better of her, and she reluctantly handed over a few coins for a bowl of stew, which she and Aventus shared, greedily slurping down every last drop. And late in the night, when the inn was finally quiet, Susanna once again snuck them down to the kitchen to sleep.

* * *

 

The third day wasn’t much better—a grey sky still loomed overhead, thick clouds threatening to split and spill out more snow, but miraculously, the weather held. Around midday, Susanna slunk past their table and slipped them a wedge of cheese along with a hunk of bread. The bread was slightly stale, and she had to scrape a thin layer of mold off the cheese before it was edible, but they tore into it as though it were a feast fit for royalty. They were polishing off the last of the crumbs when a faint commotion began over at the far end of the room, the rest of the patrons scooting back their chairs and rising to cluster around the window.

Monica stood more slowly, Aventus a silent shadow on her heels as they joined the others. Fortunately, they made way with little fuss, shifting over so she could see out as well. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but the last thing she would have expected were the two long lines of ragged-looking men and women marching through the streets in chains.

Evidently her confusion was clear, as another patron leaned in to explain. “They’re sending prisoners out to clear the roads,” she remarked. “Probably in exchange for time off their sentences. It’s a good deal—for them, and for us.” But it didn’t seem like such a generous offer, as Monica peered more closely and noticed that they were bone-thin and dressed in rags, with only wrappings on their feet. She let out a small gasp when one of them stumbled, falling heavily against another and nearly knocking them both into a snowdrift, only to be violently yanked upright by a guard in a blue sash.

Bile rising in her throat, she turned away and roughly pushed her way through the small crowd back to her table, unable to watch anymore. Hunching over in her chair, she pressed her nails into her palms, attempting to slow her breathing. She needed out of this city. She needed to be free of the constant, oppressive shadow cast over it. There was nothing good here, she thought bitterly. She would have charged straight out the gates, braving the drifts and throwing herself to the mercy of the winds—if not for the small figure that had slunk into the chair across from her, watching with wide eyes.

She tried to smile, but she doubted the sight of her lips grimly stretched over her teeth was reassuring in the slightest. She could still see the fear reflected in Aventus’ eyes, in the tentative frown he wore. “You don’t like them,” he said. “The soldiers.”

He caught on to more than she’d realized. She opened to mouth to reassure him, to convince him—and herself—that there was nothing wrong, but she found herself telling the truth instead. “No,” she admitted. To her surprise, this seemed to have the opposite effect than what she’d anticipated. His posture relaxed, his legs curling up under him and his forearms planted on the tabletop as he leaned across it, as though sharing a secret.

“Me either,” he whispered. His dark eyes appeared troubled. “They came to the house the same day Ma was buried. They didn’t even let me pack my things.” A scowl crossed his face, and she was suddenly reminded of ritual remains back in his room. A cold shiver ran down her spine, but she leaned forward as well.

“We don’t have an orphanage in Battlehorn,” she said. “As far as I can remember, we’ve never needed one.”

“You don’t?” Aventus looked up in surprise. “Then what happens to kids whose parents die?” His brows knitted together, and she smiled.

“Someone’ll take them in. We’re a small community, and we’re close knit. Relatives, friends…it’s all the same, really.”

“But do they still have to leave their houses?” His frown had returned, but she felt her own grin growing wider.

“Yes and no.” She leaned back in her chair. “Property’s a funny thing in Battlehorn. Technically, the fortress and the surrounding lands belong to Lady Adlen, so the quarters you occupy depend on your job. Mama’s the head tailor, and she works closely with Lady Adlen, so we’ve got quarters in the keep. My friend Heidmir, though—his father’s a smith, so they’ve got a cottage by the forge. A lot of the farmers live outside the walls, so I don’t know if it’s different for them, but during raiding season they come up to the keep anyhow.”

Aventus had leaned back in his chair as well, arms folded across his chest, but his expression was earnest. “Do you like it there?”

“I do,” she said, and she meant it with all her heart. “I really do. It’s…” But she couldn’t have explained the dim, drowsy quiet of Lady Adlen’s solar, the rush of  the wind on the battlements, the smell of that night’s dinner wafting all throughout the keep from the kitchens, lying safe in the warmth of her bed at night, hearing Guinevere humming (and occasionally cursing) as she puttered about in her laboratory. “It’s home,” she finally said. Doubtful that was the answer Aventus was looking for, but it would have to suffice.

“Hmmph.” He cocked his head, staring down into his lap. Then, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

It was the most promising semblance of agreement she’d heard from him yet.

* * *

 

“ _We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone; for the age of oppression is now nearly done…_ ”

Monica fought the urge to scream, glaring balefully at the bard from her place at their usual table. The bard’s voice wasn’t bad, but in the past four days, she’d sung that same song on the hour _at least_ —sometimes even more. She could hardly blame her, though—she appeared to make her song choices based on request—and with a room full of Stormcloaks, it was inevitable. But the constant repetition had her ready to snap the bard’s lute in half—and the lyrics singing Ulfric Stormcloak’s praises made her downright sick.

She was tired; sleeping in a chair meant she was barely getting more than a few hours a night, and on top of it, she had a horrible crick in her neck. But it was the hunger raking at her belly that was truly unbearable. Her head pounded and sickly sense of dizziness had settled over her, but the worst of it was the quiet voice in her head, warning her that they couldn’t go on like this much longer.

Her gaze shifted to Aventus, who was sprawled across the tabletop. Like her, he wore an expression of pure wrath—only his was aimed directly at her.

“But _why_?” His voice was bordering on a whine, and she gritted her teeth together.

“Because we’re almost out of coin,” she replied patiently—but even she could tell she’d failed to disguise the edge to her tone. “Do you want to walk all the way to Whiterun?”

Aventus huffed, slumping back in his chair. “No,” he spat sourly.

“Then please, _please_ stop asking me. We’re not spending any more money until we get to Whiterun.” She’d counted the remaining combined contents of the coinpurses the night before, down in the kitchen after Susanna had left and Aventus had fallen asleep. A dark fear had bloomed in her heart when she was finished, staring at the neat stacks of coins she’d made on the rickety table, and by the light of day, it had taken root. There was just enough for the fare and inn costs for both of them—and then, if they were lucky, maybe enough for one last meal before they were out entirely. All she could do for now was ignore the hunger—and pray she found work quickly in Whiterun.

A silence fell between them, with only the low murmur of the inn to break it—along with the bard’s song. She was on the line, “ _All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King_ ,” and Monica was considering marching over and making a request of her own when Aventus abruptly leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table.

“I can get us food.” He’d lowered his voice considerably—and Monica knew what he was about to say.

“No. Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “For the last time, we are _not_ breaking back into the house.” She hissed the last part through clenched teeth, but she was met with a smug expression from Aventus.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Then where?” she asked sharply, and his face fell a little. “Where?” she repeated, and he glanced guiltily away.

“Some of the nicer houses have good stuff that they just throw away,” he mumbled. “They’re not going to eat it, but there’s nothing wrong with it, and…” His words trailed off, and she finally comprehended what he was saying.

“ _Aventus!_ ” She stared at him, incredulous, and his face flushed scarlet. “ _You can’t_ _eat out of the garbage!_ ”

He wouldn’t look at her, and she had a sinking feeling. “I’ve done it before,” he muttered. “There’s nothing wrong with it—they just don’t want it.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I thought you said there was food at the house.”

“There is.” He finally looked up, his dark eyes hard as they bored into hers. “Where do you think I got it from?”

There was an edge to his tone that belonged to someone far beyond his years, and her heart broke even further. The spurt of rage that shot through her veins was cleansing, her ill humor fading away as her fury was redirected to its proper target. If not for Ulfric Stormcloak, she reminded herself, Aventus would have been at Honorhall when she arrived.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But Aventus…” She sighed, tilting her head back. “I can’t let you go digging through the garbage for food. I just can’t.”

He rolled his eyes, frustration filling the tense lines of his features. “But I’m _hungry_.”

“I said no!” Her voice rose higher than she’d intended, and several heads turned their way. Her heart froze, but when they mercifully looked away, she breathed a sigh of relief, mentally kicking herself for her outburst. She couldn’t afford to lose control again, lest she run the risk of attracting more attention—or of Aventus making the steely-eyed expression he was wearing now.

“It’s not fair,” he muttered, and she silently groaned.

“I know,” she sighed. “But we’ll figure something out. It’ll be fine.”

She only wished she could believe her own words.

* * *

 

The following morning dawned dull and grey as usual, but as the morning wore on, she began to notice something unusual—bright scatterings of light cast in geometric patterns on the floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she followed them to their source—and sure enough, the panes of the windows showed a bright, clear blue.

Aventus had noticed as well, and she caught his eye as his face lit up. “Well?” she asked. “Should we head outside?”

“Can we?” he asked. His eyes brightened as she nodded, and for a moment, he looked more like a typical kid than he had in the time since she’d met him. His grin was infectious, and she felt her face breaking into one of her own.

“Of course!” She was already on her feet, and Aventus eagerly followed suit as she tossed her cloak across her shoulders. As they collected their belongings, she sighed a little to herself, reaching out to help him untangle his arm from the strap of his pack. It was inconvenient to have to lug everything along with them, but the sun was shining, and there was no chance that was she was going to waste this day indoors.

The air was brisk, but compared to the icy wind from the week prior, it was downright balmy. The sky was crisp and cloudless, and if not for the half-melted piles of slush sending tiny rivers spilling into the gutters, it would be typical weather for Frostfall—even by Cyrodiil’s standards.

At Aventus’ suggestion, they made their way to the city’s marketplace, stepping carefully across the street’s sparse dry patches to avoid soaking their feet or slipping on the remaining ice. She breathed in deeply, feeling more energized and alert than she had all week, thanks to the close, stuffy atmosphere of the inn.

The buzz and hum of the crowd in the market was slightly alarming, putting her on alert, but she found herself oddly soothed by the clang of the forge as they approached it.

It hadn’t even been two weeks since she’d left Riverwood, but she felt a sudden burst of something akin to homesickness. Part of her almost wished she’d stayed, but the duty-bound part of her released a quick surge of guilt at the thought. She couldn’t have left Aventus on his own—even though the boy was obstinate and downright ornery, and even though deep down she was just the tiniest bit frightened of him.

But that was overridden by the fear she had _for_ him. Despite what she’d told him back at the Aretino house, what if the alleged Dark Brotherhood _had_ caught wind of what he was doing? What if an assassin had showed up at the house, not to fulfill his request, but to silence him for calling attention to the shadowy order? Or if not an actual assassin, perhaps some small-time criminal seeking to exploit him in some way? Who knew what harm could have come to him?

She shuddered. No, she’d done the right thing, even if it meant standing here in the middle of Ulfric’s city rather than safe by the fire in Alvor and Sigrid’s house. She could always return, she thought wistfully, and take Alvor up on his offer—but with Aventus in tow, it just wouldn’t be feasible. Helping Alvor out of her own accord was one thing—but as his apprentice, she couldn’t expect to rely on charity—or rather, expect Sigrid to take care of Aventus for her. The boy was definitely a handful, and it wasn’t even as though the town had a school she could send him to during the day.

“Something I can help you with, ma’am?” One of the smiths stepped away from the forge, and she realized she’d been staring.

“No—sorry,” she said, quickly stepping back, but on a sudden impulse, she paused. “Actually, I was wondering,” she began nervously, and the smith raised an eyebrow. “How, um, how does one go about getting work?  At a forge like this one, I mean?” It couldn’t hurt to ask—she’d enjoyed her work with Alvor, and there were sure to be forges in Whiterun.

The smith’s other eyebrow rose. “You’re kidding me,” he said slowly. Suspicion crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You’re not…asking for yourself, are you?”

“I am,” she said, and she forced her spine a little straighter. She’d done good work for Alvor—and she’d earned her right to be proud of it. She wasn’t about to let this stranger intimidate her.

The smith sighed, crossing the remaining distance between them and leaning heavily against a nearby pillar. “Well to start with, I’m not taking on any more help right now. I just brought on three more last month.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where a cluster of young people were gathered around the workbenches. “But generally, you’ll want to have completed your apprenticeship, and have _done well_ at it. That part’s important.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ll also want references and examples of your work. Then there’s a generally a trial period to make sure you’re the sort of person I can work with. Every other forgemaster I’ve ever met has a similar process, though. It’s pretty standard.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That the answer you’re looking for?”

“Maybe,” she said, squirming guiltily beneath her cloak. “And, ah—how does one go about getting an apprenticeship?”

He exhaled, his breath turning to white plumes in the brisk air. “Well, you won’t find one with me, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, and she flinched.  “There’s a time for learning, and there’s a time for action—and that time’s here now. This is a labor of honor, and I don’t have the time or the steel to spare on teaching.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean here,” she interrupted quickly. “What about Whiterun? What’s the business like there?

He stared at her for a moment before throwing his head back and letting loose a raucous roar of laughter. Monica stared back in horror, her face burning deep scarlet as blood rushed to the surface of her skin. People were watching. His assistants had looked up from their work, and passersby were stopping in the street to gawk. She ducked her head as the tears sprang to her eyes, but at least she resisted the urge to shrink back toward Aventus. She hadn’t sunk so low as to cower behind a ten-year-old—yet.

He cut himself off mid-breath when he saw the look on her face, turning it into an awkward cough. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Whiterun’s…err, _competitive_.” His brow wrinkled apologetically, and her heart sank. “It’s got the Skyforge, and just about all the trade that goes through the province. Lot of talented smiths make their home there.”

“Well,” she said, struggling to keep the disappointment from her tone. “I see then.” Her shoulders still slumped with dejection, although she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as though she’d actually expected anything to come of this. “Thank you for your time—and the information.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gave her a brief nod before returning to the forge, and she slowly wandered back out into the street.

Beside her, Aventus was squirming impatiently. “You know how to smith?” he whispered, and she stiffened at the incredulity in his tone.

“I know a little,” she replied defensively. “I’m better with leather, but I know how to work a forge.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his smirk and sighed to herself. “I just need practice,” she muttered, but Aventus was darting ahead to one of the market stands, and she sighed to herself as she hurried after him.

* * *

 

They returned to the inn a few hours later, far more sullenly than they’d set out. The excitement had temporarily distracted Aventus from his hunger, but the exhaustion had finally set in, leaving him crankier than ever. But Monica was downright heartsick, having transcended both the ache in her belly and the chill in her bones.

She’d stopped by the alchemist’s, but the conversation had gone much like the one with the smith—except the alchemist hadn’t been nearly as polite or informative. It’d been his apprentice, actually, who’d told her the same thing the smith had—Whiterun was competitive, and only true expertise combined with formal education had a chance there.

That left sewing as her only other real marketable skill, but she already knew that was a dead end. She’d gotten the strangest looks when she’d asked about tailors, but she understood why. Embroidery couldn’t keep you warm in a blizzard, and the practical garments these Nords seemed to favor could just as easily be made at home—for far cheaper, no less. Sadly, it was the one profession she could probably break into without formalized training, but it’d be solely a matter of luck. And it would most likely require settling in Solitude.

She snorted at the thought, but it immediately brought the reminder of her _other_ problem, the one that had her nearly dizzy with fear. If none of her actual skills could bring her any money, her only other options would be working at a market stand, or perhaps as a maid or something. Although most of the vendors had eyed her with suspicion, a few had been on the chattier side, and from them, she began to understand the dire nature of her situation.

No one she’d spoken to had any need for extra help themselves, but they’d all agreed that surely there would be in Whiterun. But the issue lay in the wages they’d estimated she could expect to make—and Whiterun’s high cost of living.

She didn’t doubt that they spoke the truth, recalling the amount of money she’d handed over just for a night at an inn and a bowl of porridge. When you added together the costs of lodging, food, and fire, she didn’t even know how they’d survive the winter, much less save up for two passages back to Cyrodiil.

_If only I hadn’t crossed the border_. The thought had been quietly stewing at the back of her mind for a while now, but as she sat with an empty stomach trying to sleep upright in a wooden chair, it came screaming to the surface. She tried to remind herself that at least Aventus wasn’t alone—that he wouldn’t freeze or starve in his family’s deserted home, or be killed by a wayward assassin—but she was cold, she was hungry, and she wanted to go _home_. It was selfish, she knew, but she _ached_ for it—to be safe back at Battlehorn with Guinevere, watching the Great Forest light up with a blaze of color.

But for all she knew, she would never see home again. Skyrim winters were a serious matter—and it was starting to seem unlikely that she’d make it through.

* * *

 

By the following night, despair had settled over her like shroud, leaving her glued to an upstairs chair as the other patrons slowly cleared out. At this point, it’d been days since she’d eaten, but she wasn’t sure she even felt the pain of hunger anymore—it was as if it’d gnawed the whole way through her stomach, leaving only an empty hole behind. In a way, it was a relief—she’d probably be going hungry a lot in the coming months, and if this was the worst it ever got, she could endure it. Not that she was particularly optimistic on that front, though.

Across the table, Aventus lifted his head. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped with a weariness that should never be seen in a ten-year-old. “Monica,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “ _Please_.”

It was the same request he’d made days ago, and he’d been repeating it every day since. Her pride had prevented her from agreeing at the time, but pride, she was beginning to see, was doing neither of them any favors at the moment. And so she found herself beginning to nod, despite the staggering sense of guilt that accompanied the gesture of approval.

“All right,” she whispered, blinking back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see the look of relief on Aventus’ face—she had to look away.

“Really?” His voice sounded so much lighter, as if the weight of years had been taken off from it. “It…it’s not so bad. Honestly.” There was an anxious note in his tone, and when she finally lifted her gaze to his, his earnest expression threatened to rip her heart out. “You’ll see,” he was saying. “I’ll show you.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that.” It was meant to be a joke, but it came out sounding heavy and flat. She slowly pushed her chair back, ignoring the rush of dizziness as she stood. “Should we go now?”

Aventus’ face immediately fell into a frown. “No,” he said, rising to his feet. “I know the streets, and all the best houses. I’ll be faster alone.” He was avoiding her eyes, and she felt a quick twitch of dread.

“Aventus,” she asked carefully, “is this illegal?”

He hesitated. “No,” he said, “but the guards won’t like it if they catch you.”

That told her everything she needed to know. She should have put a stop to it right there, but she was too tired to argue with him, and she didn’t have the heart to deny him after she’d already agreed.

She sat back down as he tugged on his cloak, her guilt increasing tenfold. She had promised Guinevere she would look after Aventus, and she’d meant it—but never would she have expected she’d be doing such an abysmal job of it.

Aventus was making a beeline for the door, but then he paused, glancing back at her. “I’ll hurry,” he said. And then he was gone, skittering out into the night.

The moment the door shut behind him, she was on her feet, pacing back and forth across the floor of the inn. She had half a mind to run out after him, to demand that either she accompany him or that he return with her. What had she been thinking, sending a ten-year-old out to wander the streets alone? What if something happened to him? He’d claimed he knew what he was doing, but still…

She groaned to herself, slumping down in her chair again. In the week she’d known him, she’d quickly discovered that Aventus possessed an air of self-assurance most people spent a lifetime trying to develop. But underneath it, she reminded herself, he was just a kid. She’d been incredibly naïve to let him convince her otherwise, and she shuddered at the thought of telling Guinevere that she’d let him run around the city alone in the dead of night to scrounge through nobles’ garbage. If she was to take care of him, she told herself sternly, she couldn’t afford to be so gullible and irresponsible. And as she sat alone anxiously eyeing the clock, she quietly vowed never to be so stupid again.

* * *

 

It was in the wee hours of the morning when he returned. The fire burned low, the main room of the inn was all but empty, and she’d been nodding off in the corner when she heard the scrape of the latch. She sat bolt upright, staring at the door, and when a small, familiar figure came slinking through, she let out a sigh of relief.

“You’re back,” she whispered as he tiptoed toward her. His cheeks were pink from the cold, and was it her imagination, or was there a slight spring back in his step? “Did…?” She couldn’t even bring herself to ask the question, but he nodded enthusiastically, the first genuine smile she’d seen from him in days breaking over his face.

“Here.” He pushed something into her hands, and her heart sank when she saw what it was. An end crust of bread, only slightly stale, and half an apple, a bit mushy but still edible.

She swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in her throat as she spoke. “Aventus, you—you didn’t have to…”

He frowned. “Yes I did,” he said, a puzzled expression spreading across his features. “Now hurry up and eat!”

She couldn’t look at him. She was blinking back tears the entire time, but she managed to force down every last bite, although it may as well have turned to ash the moment it touched her tongue.

They retreated to the kitchen once she’d finished, and although Aventus was out the moment he flopped down on his makeshift bed, Monica sat wide awake in the semi-darkness, glaring in the direction of the pantry. Stocked to the brim with fresh food, yet here she and Aventus were, eating literal trash. She felt a sudden flood of anger—but Susanna had provided them with a place to sleep, _and_ risked her job by sneaking them food as best she could. No, that wasn’t the real reason she was angry, but the fury remained just the same, pulsing beneath her skin. And once the steady rhythm of Aventus’ breathing assured her that he was truly asleep, she crept back up the ladder to their usual corner, where she buried her face in her hands and wept.

If her goal was protecting Aventus, then she had failed. Never in her life had she failed so miserably. She’d made a promise to Guinevere, but how was she supposed to keep it? She was utterly useless, she reminded herself bitterly, as her trip to the market the other day had proved. She had nothing. She _was_ nothing. And by some horrible trick of fate, Aventus was relying on _her_ for survival. She snorted. Somehow, not even that was true anymore, seeing as he had been the one to provide them with food tonight. And that thought was the worst of all—that she’d become the responsibility—the _burden_ —of a child. Because despite his tough act, Aventus was only ten years old. He should be depending on her, not the other way around.

Her tears had long since dried up, and she was left only with grim resolution. She was out of money, out of options, and out of hope, but she had to find a way. She had to do better. She _would_ do better. And she silently made another promise to herself.

* * *

 

In her dream, she faced the dragon again. She could only stand helpless, petrified with fear as it stalked forward, eyes glittering with malice as its maw cracked open. She closed her eyes bracing herself for a rush of flame—but instead, its jaws snapped down on her arm. “Monica.”

She cried out as she was jerked from the nightmare, only to come face to face with a very startled Susanna. “Oh!” Susanna stared at her with wide eyes as she gasped, struggling to slow her breathing back down to normal. “Oh Talos, I’m sorry.”

“That’s—ah, that’s all right.” She stuttered the words out, despite her heart threatening to burst straight out her chest. Beside her, Aventus had awoken and sat up, although she still felt as though she was seeing the world through a haze of dragon’s breath.

“Nils is going to be here any minute.” There was a flicker of annoyance in her voice, and Monica cringed—they’d overslept. “But Arivanya just walked in, and I heard her telling Elda the carriages are going to start running again today.”

That was enough to jolt her out of her stupor. “Really?” She leapt to her feet, and Susanna’s stormy demeanor softened ever so slightly.

“Yes,” she said, a brief smile flickering across her face. “I don’t know where to and they’re definitely not back to normal schedules yet, but Nils is coming and you need to go!” She made a shooing motion with her hands as Monica and Aventus scrambled to gather their belongings. It only took a matter of moments—they’d slept with shoes on, their cloaks had been used as blankets, and everything else was already in their packs. “Good luck!” Susanna hissed as they fled out into the hallway, and Monica paused to give her a grateful smile and wave. Susanna had showed them a kindness few strangers would, and they owed a lot to the woman—possibly even their very lives.

The air was brisk and blustery as they hurried over the bridge, but nothing near the icy temperatures earlier that week, and although there were melting piles of snow everywhere, the roads appeared clear—from what she could see, at least. And as the stables came into sight, she breathed a long sigh of relief—sure enough, there out in front was a team of horses hitched to a carriage, a few figures huddled in the back and the driver lounging lazily in the seat.

“Mornin,’” he called as they approached, sitting up a little straighter.

She lifted an arm to shield her eyes from the glare of the morning sun. “Good morning,” she said. “I heard there’d be carriages today?”

“You heard right. Long as you’re going south, that is.” He swiveled in his seat to peer off to the north. “The roads up that way won’t be clear for a while. And I bet you they’re still getting weather.” He shifted back toward them. “But I’m about to leave for Whiterun, and there’ll be another bound for Riften around noon. Where are you headed?”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling ill at the surge of uncertainty coursing through her. This was it, she thought nervously. Once she handed over the fare, she’d be effectively broke. But she’d made promises—and so many mistakes. With her heart beginning to race, she made her choice. “Riften.”

Beside her, Aventus took a sharp intake of breath “ _What?_ ”

The driver nodded. “Shouldn’t be too long. Ulundil’ll probably let you wait in the stables if this wind picks up.” He squinted at the sky. “But we’ve got to head out. Nice talking with you.”

Monica nodded, backing away as he lifted the reins and set the horses lumbering forward, the carriage rolling east along the road toward Whiterun. The flutter in her chest had turned into a full-on rumble, and she began to think she might truly be sick. Every decision she’d made so far on this journey had been the wrong one—why should this be any different? But right now, she had a bigger problem—Aventus was downright _livid_.

“Monica!” He was yanking on her cloak now, his grip tight and desperate. “You said I wouldn’t have to go back there! You _promised!_ ”

Dark fury filled his eyes, and for a moment, she was honestly frightened. This was a boy, she reminded herself, who had spent the past month attempting a grisly Dark Brotherhood ritual. But keeping her promise meant being strong—and _that_ meant she couldn’t let herself cave to him.

“Aventus,” she sighed. “It’s all right. You are not going back to Honorhall.”

He glared at her with narrowed eyes. “You _said_ we were going to Whiterun,” he snarled.

“Well, the plan’s changed,” she said, the word coming out much sharper than she’d intended. “I have business in Riften, but I promise, you will never set foot inside Honorhall again.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see it in his eyes, in the way his glare never wavered, the way he shifted away from her. She exhaled.

“I need you to trust me,” she said firmly. “Can you do that?”

But he balefully stared her down, and despite the cold wind, she felt herself breaking out into a sweat. By the Eight, what had she done? Had she really been so blind—been so focused on the future that she’d ignored the fact that her fatal mistake was right in front of her? He could take off, she thought fearfully. He could flee back into the city and she’d never find him again.

But then his gaze softened, just the slightest bit, although he slowly brought his arms up to cross them over his chest. “Fine,” he spat, and she allowed herself to breathe again. “But I’m _not_ going back to Honorhall.”

She met his gaze levelly. “No, you’re not.” He stared suspiciously for a moment, and then his posture finally relaxed, arms dropping to his sides.

“All right, then.”

He was cold and aloof for the rest of the wait, but she still felt sweet relief soothing her frayed nerves. This was a major victory. His faith in her had been tested, but somewhere along the way, she’d built up enough trust with him for it to withstand.

But despite her triumph, her thoughts quickly turned to what lay ahead. They were almost out of money, and if the risk she was about to take didn’t pay off, they’d truly be doomed. In Riften, she would either save them—or make her final mistake.


	11. A New Path Unfolds

The snow and harsh winds began to fade away the further south they travelled, and by the time they reached the Rift, they had been replaced entirely by the typical bright colors and delightfully cool breeze of autumn. It was dark when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Riften stables, but still fairly early in the evening, and the streets were filled with traffic as Monica quickly ushered Aventus toward the same inn she’d stayed at last time. Although the passersby filling the streets appeared no less suspicious than they had on her previous visit, they no longer intimidated her. After the cold, constant presence of Ulfric in Windhelm, this seedy little city seemed like a haven by comparison.

The inn was just as raucous as it’d been the first night she’d spent here, but no mysterious strangers sprang from the shadows to corner her this time. She wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse, she thought grimly to herself as she guided Aventus along the wall. This inn, although smaller than Windhelm’s Candlehearth Hall, was far louder and more crowded, and the constant rumble of noise and movement was already causing that panicky feeling to rise in her chest.

But luckily enough, she managed to find them a vacant space on a bench, and she breathed a small sigh of relief as she sat, letting her pack slide to the ground. “Now what?” Aventus grumbled as he slumped back, propping his head against the wall.

Funny how that happened to be the very question she was asking herself. At least the hard part was over—for the time being, anyhow, and now there was only a matter of waiting. _Breathe_ , she ordered herself sternly, ignoring the sick feeling in her gut. _There’s nothing you can do now_.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” she told him, twisting her fingers together, lest her shaking hands betray her attempt at calm. “I have something I need to take care of in the morning.” She hesitated, then added, “Will you be all right staying here by yourself while I’m gone?”

But Aventus only scoffed, shifting so that his back was turned to her, and she heaved an inward sigh. She honestly should have known better. His hostility had faded within hours of his initial outburst outside the Windhelm stables, but he’d remained cold and aloof throughout the course of their journey. She’d spent most of the time in the carriage speculating whether it was because he still expected her to return him to Honorhall, or because the change in plans had overturned his only sense of stability, but either way, it was growing increasingly difficult to maintain her patience.

His silence was draining as the night wore on, as were the hours themselves. Not only was this inn particularly cramped and noisy, but there was no lull in the turmoil as there’d been in Windhelm—and there was no Susanna to slip them food or sneak them off to a place to sleep. Selfish reasons aside, the ache in her heart when she thought of Susanna surprised her. Somewhere in the short amount of time that they’d known her, she’d begun to think of the woman as a friend—the first friend she’d had in a long time, if she was being completely honest with herself. You couldn’t count Hadvar’s pity, or the cool tolerance of Lady Adlen’s various attendants. And as for Heidmir…well, he’d stopped being her friend a long time ago, but if she started thinking about that now, she’d never get through what awaited her in the morning.

That wasn’t exactly a pleasant thought either, but as her dread multiplied, time seemed speed along, and before she knew it, the faint light of morning was creeping across the floor. And although her eyes were heavy, she felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach, and her heart began to beat just a little faster. Not much longer now.

Aventus awoke soon after, and sure enough, his surly mood remained unchanged. His head had drooped against her shoulder in the night, but the moment his eyes opened, he was sitting upright again, turning his back to her without a word. He hated her, she thought miserably. He’d never forgive her for dragging him off to starve in the city where the worst memories of his life had taken place. A new spike of fear arose as she considered the possibility that he still might attempt to flee back to Windhelm no matter what happened today, and when mid-morning rolled around and she forced herself to her feet, she found herself faced with a new dilemma altogether.

“I need to go out for a bit,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “And I need you to stay right here. Will you do that?” He still didn’t look at her, and she felt a flash of irritation. “Aventus!” Her voice was sharp as Windhelm’s winds, but at least it seemed to get his attention. He turned to face her, still wearing that baleful glare, and she took a deep breath. “I need you to stay right here,” she repeated, exhausting the last reserves of her patience. “Keep an eye on our things, don’t move, and don’t talk to anyone. Will you do that?” _Or do I have to drag you along with me and possibly get us both killed_ , she added silently, but he rolled his eyes and gave a curt nod.

“Fine.” It was the closest thing to an agreement she was going to get from him, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“All right. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but just…stay here.

He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, and she nodded slowly as she stepped away toward the door. It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to have left him with some sort of contingency plan—a way to contact Hadvar or something in case this went badly for her—but deep down, she knew it wouldn’t matter. If she didn’t return, his first impulse would be to disappear on his own, and if he didn’t trust her, there’d be no way he’d place any faith in a stranger. They really were down to their last hope—and she couldn’t put failure on the table.

Riften’s marketplace was easy enough to find—located in the center of town, all traffic naturally gravitated in that direction, and it didn’t hurt that it was close by the inn. Although the noise and nearness of the crowds sent a flare of panic rising in her, she kept her head down and drifted from stall to stall, not really sure what she was looking for.  She briefly considered heading back to the inn and coming back at a less busy time, but quickly dispelled that idea. She’d never manage to work up the courage a second time. But despite the din of the merchants’ shouts around her, she finally made out a familiar voice rising above the rest.

She elbowed her way through the crowd, following the sound until she broke through a throng of shoppers and saw him dead ahead, behind a stall lined with dozens of glittering red glass vials. This was it then. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and straightening her spine before she started forward.

He didn’t seem to notice her, his gaze sliding over her as though she were a stone on the pavement as she approached, but when she stepped up to the counter, he looked her square in the eye and smiled.

“I’ve got to say, lass,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.” He was far less terrifying in the daylight than he’d been in a smoke-darkened tavern, the very picture of a respected merchant as he stood smiling behind the market stall. Only the worn threads of his expensive clothing and the grime beneath his fingernails hinted that he was anything less reputable, and as she stood facing him, her fear melted away and all she felt was annoyance.

 “Well, here I am,” she said plainly, crossing her arms over her chest and breathing a silent sigh of relief as she felt the lump of the coin purse hidden in her sleeve pressing against her ribs. She hadn’t been robbed yet—that had to be a good sign.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, and her heart sank a little. “So you are,” he said, turning to straighten the bottles on the other side of the stand.

She blinked, taken aback. If she’d gambled the last of her coin and her hope on this only to—no, she couldn’t think about that now, she reminded herself as the panic began to brew in the pit of her stomach.

“So?” she challenged, following him along the length of the counter. “When we—” She hesitated, glancing around for any sign of the guards before leaning in closer. “When we last spoke, you said you might have some…work for me.”

“Too late,” he replied, flicking away a speck of imaginary dust from one of the bottles.

“Too _late_?” she repeated.  Her heart had all but stopped, and she was already feeling the tears beginning to well up. He stared at her blankly.

“Things move fast around here,” he said, and even through her haze of shock she detected a hint of admonishment in his tone. “That particular errand was finished up last week. Without you.”

So that was it then. It was done. She and Aventus were both finished. Yet another failure on her part—only this was the worst one of all. There could have been some chance for them in Whiterun—only it was too late for that now.

“Okay,” she said numbly. It was all she _could_ say. The reality of the situation had yet to sink in, instead hanging above her like a stormcloud, threatening to break at any moment. But she had turned to walk away when he spoke up again.

“But if you’re serious, something else has come up that you could help me with.”

She froze in her tracks, scarcely daring to believe what she was hearing. Slowly, she turned back to face him. “What?” she asked suspiciously.

He leaned across the counter, a hint of a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “First, you need to come around to this side.”

She stood her ground, once again bringing her arms up to cross protectively over her chest. “Why?”

His smile widened into a bright grin that would have been dazzling were it not for the crooked, yellow teeth lining it. “Because my strongbox is back here. I’m going to teach you how to pick a lock.”

In spite of everything, one small advantage had just presented itself, and she took it and clung to it. “I already know how,” she said proudly, straightening up to full height.

“Do you, now?” His smirk had returned, and she frowned.

“I do!” she insisted, silently thanking the thieves who’d broken into the Riverwood Trader the month prior—and praying that what Alvor had taught her about locks would actually prove applicable.

“All right, then. Here. Take these before the guard circles back around.” He slid several long, slim pieces of metal across the counter, and she hurriedly shoved them into her pocket. “Now. I’m going to cause a distraction, and you’re going to steal Madesi’s silver ring from the strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei’s pocket without him noticing.”

She’d known going into this that she’d most likely be doing something unsavory, but she still recoiled. “We’re going to _frame_ somebody?” she hissed. She could feel the blood draining from her face. “ _Why?_ ”

“There’s someone who wants to see him put out of business, and that’s all you need to know.” He lifted an eyebrow, staring pointedly at her. “Now if you’re ready, we’ll get started.”

“Wait,” she protested. Even she could hear the desperation creeping into her tone. “What exactly am I doing? Where’s Madesi’s stand? Who’s Brand-Shei? How do I…” She trailed off uncertainly, and he sighed.

“Madesi’s stand is the one with all the shiny baubles on it. Brand-Shei is the Dunmer who’ll undoubtedly be arguing with me once the diversion is underway. And as for the rest…” He shrugged. “Use your judgment.”

Well, that was hardly helpful. But he was once again wearing that vaguely irritated expression, so she had no choice but to nod quickly. “All right,” she agreed, but her mind was racing. She’d never done anything of this sort before—not even swiping cookies from the kitchens when the cooks weren’t looking as a child. How on Nirn was she supposed to pull this off without getting herself arrested and thrown in prison? _Aventus_ , she reminded herself. She had to make this work. For his sake. She took a deep breath. “Let’s, ah…let’s do it, then.

“Good.” His smile returned. “Wait until I start the distraction, then show me what you’re made of.” She could practically feel the challenge oozing from his smug grin, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. Steeling herself, she stepped away from the counter and slowly began to make her way across the marketplace.

“Everyone!” The thief’s roar from behind her made her jump. “Everyone, gather ‘round! I have something amazing to show you!”

“Come on, Brynjolf,” someone grumbled from the crowd. “What is it this time?”

“Patience, Brand-Shei.” At that name, she risked a glance over her shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a tall Dunmer with an unruly shock of black hair. “This is a rare opportunity, and I wouldn’t want you to get left out.”

Seeing the individual they were about to harm made it all seem suddenly too real. The crowd around her was thinning, drifting over toward the thief’s stand, but her nerves were hardly calming—instead, they were growing worse. She could scarcely breathe and her vision was swimming, but she managed to make out the glint of gemstones on one of the nearby stands. She stumbled over to it on shaking legs, hoping that there were no guards watching. Were she not certain that the gods would strike her dead on a matter of principle, she would have been praying, begging for even a shred of mercy.

Crouching behind it, she steadied herself on the edge of the counter as the thief launched into pitch about the miracle elixir he was selling. There was a locked latticework door covering the inner shelves of the stand—peering through the slats, she could just see the strongbox behind them. Fumbling for the lockpicks, she grasped hold of the lock, closing her eyes as she struggled to visualize all the moving pieces inside. Taking a deep, she slipped a pick into the opening and as she cautiously jiggled it, she felt the hook on the end scraping against the pins. Okay. That was a start. Now if she could only—

Without warning, the pick snapped in half, and as she jumped back, startled, the broken pieces clattered to the stones below. She glanced around fearfully, but there was a stone wall to her back, and she didn’t see any sign of a guard’s uniform approaching from around the corners of the stand.

Wiping her sweating palms on her skirt, she slowly exhaled and tried again. This time, she managed to maneuver the pins out of the way before rotating it, but still ended up breaking the end off.

Her vision was blurring again, but this time it was from tears. She could still hear the thief shouting, but she had no idea how long he’d be able to go on. Either way, the longer she took meant a greater chance of discovery, and she was running out of time.

Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely steady them, but she nonetheless made another attempt. Despite everything in her screaming to _hurry, hurry_ , she forced herself to move slowly, easing the pins out of the way and turning the lock slowly, _slowly_ …

With a click, it popped open, and she let out a silent gasp of relief. Sliding the door out of the way, she flexed her fingers and set to work on the strongbox. Boldened by her success, she broke the pick on her first attempt, but on her second, she managed to get everything lined up just right and open it right up.

Sifting through the coins on top, she quickly caught sight of the glint of silver among them and pocketed the ring, closing the box back up and sliding the door shut. The thundering of her heart had somewhat eased as she peered around the corner of the stand, making sure the coast was clear before ducking out into the open.

But as she stood facing the sea of bodies before her, her courage faltered once more. With the ring safely in her pocket, she miserably realized that the hardest part of this task was yet to come. Theft was one thing—and that was bad enough—but she was about to make an innocent individual suffer for it.

Her knees began to tremble as the urge to back out overtook her. She _could_ do it. She could simply drop the ring and flee back to the inn. Take Aventus and leave this wretched city behind for good. Although, she reminded herself, they were all but out of coin. Unless they wanted to walk to Whiterun, they were stuck here until she made more money—and at the moment, this was her only real option. And, more selfishly, it occurred to her that without a clear culprit, it could be traced back to her, if someone had seen her lurking around the stand. And then it would have all been for nothing. Not to mention the thief—she had agreed to this, after all, and if she failed him, there was no telling what would happen. For all she knew, he could be dangerous. She had no choice. She had to move forward. She had to.

She took a series of slow breaths, forcing herself to focus. Her target—she couldn’t think of him by his name, she couldn’t—was near the front of the crowd, if she correctly remembered his voice from earlier, and judging by what Brynjolf had said about him, it seemed a fairly safe assumption. Bracing herself, she made her way to the fringes of the crowd and began to force her way through.

But the crowd seemed even less pleased to have her among them she was to be there. As she tried to push her way through, they pushed back even harder, and she found herself being roughly jostled from side to side as multiple curses were thrown her way. Gritting her teeth together, she shoved back against them as hard as she could, stomping on toes and digging elbows into ribs for good measure. Although the curses grew louder and nastier, that seemed to do the trick, and she found herself able to slip through. The crowd was beginning to thin, however, and the closer she got to the front, the easier it became to get through. Swerving just in time to avoid a heavily-armored Nord, she looked up—and saw her target heading straight toward her.

She froze, instantly breaking out in a cold sweat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, it was all happening too fast. He was mere paces in front of her, and her hand was still in her pocket, fumbling with the ring as it slipped out of her sweaty grasp.

But then, in this first stroke of luck she’d encountered since leaving Cyrodiil, the Nord she’d just avoided barreled straight into Brand-Shei. “Watch yourself!” the Nord barked, and Brand-Shei snapped something in protest, but she was no longer paying attention. She had her opening, and she was taking full advantage of it. Catching the ring on the tip of her finger, she snatched it free of her pocket, lightly grasping it between her thumb and forefinger. Brand-Shei was lurching away from the Nord, straight in her direction—and as he brushed past her, she dropped the ring into the pocket of his tunic.

She immediately felt the blood rush to her head, both elated that she’d pulled it off yet horrified of the implications of what she’d done. With every step away, the likelihood seemed to increase that any second, there’d be shouts or a hand closing around her arm. But she fled through the crowd unhindered, and as she approached a grinning Brynjolf, a sweet flood of relief had begun to course through her.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, letting out a long breath as she slumped against the counter.

“Better believe it,” he chuckled, his grin widening. “Looks like I chose the right person for the job.”

“I…I didn’t think I could do it,” she admitted as she leaned in closer, momentarily forgetting that she was afraid of him. “He started walking away too quickly, and I thought it was going to be too late, but then someone ran into him and…”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes.” He nodded as she trailed off, unable to properly describe the seemingly miraculous nature of the encounter. “A bit of luck at the just right time can make all the difference. Although the way things have been going around here, it’s a relief that our plan went off without a hitch.”

“Why?” The glow of triumph faded slightly, suspicion taking its place. “What’s been going on?”

“Bah.” Was she imagining it, or did he suddenly look uncomfortable? “My organization’s been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that’s just how it goes.”

She frowned. “What sort of bad…” But before she could finish her question, there was a commotion behind her, and she turned to see a cluster of guards surrounding Brand-Shei’s stand.

“All right, Brand-Shei,” one of them was saying. “Turn out your pockets, we know you have it.”

“Have what?” The Dunmer gazed blankly at them, clearly confused, and Monica’s stomach dropped as she realized what was happening. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid.” The guard’s voice was rising menacingly. “I said turn out your pockets—now!”

 The Dunmer rolled his eyes, huffing angrily, but he obliged. “I’m telling you, I don’t—” His voice abruptly cut off as he froze, his ashen face going pale. “Wait, what’s this…this ring? This isn’t mine!”

 “That’s right, it isn’t yours,” another guard spoke up. “You’re under arrest, Brand-Shei.”

“This is insane!” His voice was rising in panic. “I didn’t steal anything! I never saw this ring before in my entire life!”

“We can do this one of two ways.” The first guard drew his sword, and Monica’s hand shot up over her mouth in horror. “You can walk with me up to the keep, or I can drag your lifeless body. Your choice.”

“But…I…” The Dunmer sputtered in protest, but she could see his shoulders drooping in defeat.  “Very well.” As they led him away, she turned back to Brynjolf, confused.

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly, bile rising in her gut. Was she falling ill, or was it guilt? “It…it was so…fast. I just…how…?” But something suddenly clicked, and it all fell into place.

“It was _him_ , wasn’t it?” she hissed, staring pointedly in the direction of Madesi’s stand. “He’s the one who wants him out of business. He hired you to make it happen, didn’t he?”

There was no reply, but when she turned back to face him, he was staring at her peculiarly, a hint of a frown furrowing his brow.

“Asking questions can get you killed in this line of work, lass,” he said softly. “You did the job and you did it well, and that’s all you need to be concerned about.” But that was all the confirmation she needed.

“Was there even any real risk?” she wondered out loud. “He could have at least left it unlocked.” A hint of a grumble had leaked into her tone at the last part, and the thief let out an awkward cough.

 “You had to evade the guards,” he replied evenly, but judging from the twitching at the corners of his mouth, he was struggling to hide a smile.

“Did I, though?” she challenged. “Maybe he paid a guard, too.”

To her surprise, his expression turned thoughtful. “To the best of my knowledge, no.” He frowned off in the direction of the keep. “But corruption runs deep in Riften, as I’m sure you’ve realized. It could be worth looking into.”

That hadn’t been the response she’d expected. She hesitated, but his attention shifted back to her. “But like I said. Asking questions can get you killed,” he said—a little too cheerfully. “And just as I promised, here’s your payment.” He slid a leather pouch across the counter, and as she grabbed hold of it, the first thing she noticed was the weight.

Her eyes widened, and her gaze flicked back up to him. “Are you sure?” was all she could manage.

“I am.” He was watching her carefully, a knowing smirk on his face. “And best of all, there’s more where that came from,” he added.

She glanced down at the purse clutched in her hands, then back over her shoulder toward the keep. “What will happen to him?” she asked softly. His words of protest were still ringing in her head, a painful echo of her own just months prior, and she once again felt the bitter sting of guilt. From behind her, she could hear the thief’s exasperated sigh.

“That’s up to the Jarl,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “I don’t know the goings-on of her court. But what’s done is done. If you can’t handle it, then take your payment and walk away. Otherwise, the group I represent has its home in the Ratway below Riften—a tavern called the Ragged Flagon. If you’ve got what it takes, I’ll see you there—and we’ll talk about making some _real_ coin.”


	12. Shadows and Echoes

The look on Aventus' face when she told him he could order anything he liked for dinner nearly made up for the guilt lingering in the pit of her stomach. And when the innkeeper brought out a hearty beef stew, grilled potatoes, and an entire loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, she nearly forgot about the entire thing. She hadn't had a decent meal since leaving Riverwood, and she could only guess at how it'd been for Aventus. He'd slightly warmed to her, she'd noticed—but not by much. Maybe he'd finally forgiven her for dragging him all the way back to Riften, or maybe he was just in better spirits when he wasn't suffering the effects of malnutrition and exhaustion. Or, basic needs _she_ was responsible for, to put it another way, and she forced down the pang that followed with another mouthful of bread.

But the effects of extensive hunger were not quite so willing to part ways, and they had barely made a dent the mountain of food before they had sagged back from the table, somehow already uncomfortably full. So she gratefully accept the innkeeper's offer to wrap up the remains, and they trudged up the stairs to the room that she'd rented even before ordering the food.

But as they stepped through the doorway of the room, her dark thoughts melted away entirely. After weeks of sleeping upright in chairs and on little rickety cots in seedy wayside inns, there it was—a real bed. Sheets! Pillows! Sh could have sobbed tears of pure joy as she gratefully flopped down on it, not even bothering to discard her boots or turn back the covers. The mattress was straw, thin and lumpy, but right then and there, it may as well have been the silken nest of feathers that made up Lady Adlen's bed.

She only meant to rest her eyes for a moment, but she must have fallen asleep, for when the rush of scaly wings sent her bolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath, the room was dark. Aventus was asleep beneath a mound of blankets on the other side of the bed, his even breathing the only sound aside from the faint sounds of merriment wafting up between the floorboards. Her panic eased a little at that—the past weeks had been downright grueling, and it was a relief to see him able to actually rest for once. She was finally keeping her promise.

Prying off her boots, she settled back down, allowing her aching head to sink into the soft pillow. But try as she might, the rest she so desperately sought continued to evade her, and as she lay awake in the darkness, she slowly came to realize it was not a dragon chasing her sleep away—it was a Dunmer. The Dunmer from the marketplace. Brand-Shei.

Groaning, she sat back up, swinging her feet over the side of the bed and dropping her head into her hands. Guilt was a feeling she'd grown far too accustomed to over the last few months. Her brief lapse in judgment had affected so many: Aventus, Guinevere, Alvor and Sigrid, Susanna...and now Brand-Shei. She was suffocating under the weight of it, and beneath it all, she'd been quietly seething the entire time at the burning injustice of it all. This heavy, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was new, though.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Aventus was still asleep. With any luck, he wouldn't awaken for several hours at least—and with everything he'd been through over the past several weeks, that seemed unlikely. Tugging her boots back on and slinging her cloak over her shoulders, she quietly stole out of the room and down through the inn's main room into the chilly autumn night.

Riften in the darkness was unsettling as ever, but somehow, it was no longer as frightening as it once had been. Its dangers seemed far less threatening now that she'd met them by the light of day—knew them by name, even. And seen them in the dusty mirror above the dresser in her rented room. Her heavy cloak blocked the night breeze, but she shivered just the same. Was she someone people should be afraid of?

She reached her destination swiftly enough, and as she climbed the steps to the Temple of Mara, she felt yet another pang of guilt. Religion was something she'd greatly neglected since leaving Battlehorn—and it would seem most of Riften's citizens did the same, given the temple's general state of disrepair. It was nothing like Battlehorn's pristinely-maintained little chapel, but despite the shabby exterior, the solemn peace as she crossed the threshold hit her with a burst of familiarity, and she found herself aching for home all over again. The statue of the Mother Goddess stood straight ahead at the front of the room, emanating a quiet glow of comfort, and Monica felt herself breath just a little easier. The main room seemed deserted as she drifted up the aisleway between the pews—for which she was eternally grateful. At the foot of the altar, she knelt, closing her eyes as she began to pray.

"O Mother, forgive me," she began, her words barely a whisper of a murmur. "I've hurt someone, someone who did me no wrong." The words were pouring out of her now, and in a haze of shame and tears, she found herself admitting all the agony that had plagued her since she set foot outside of Cyrodiil.

"I broke the law. I defied the Legion's orders and snuck across the border anyway. My cousin has suffered because I couldn't take care of him. And I tried to fix it, but then I stole, and I...I set a stranger up to take the fall for my crime."

Saying it out loud made is suddenly seem all too real, a fog of condemnation hanging heavy across her shoulders. "I should make it right," she continued. "I should go to the guards—tell them what I did and accept my fate." She had started crying again, the tears rolling down her face to drip onto the floorboards. "But if I do they'll send Aventus back to Honorhall. And I'm so afraid—afraid for him. There's darkness in him, and if that happens, I'm scared of what he might do." She shuddered, thinking of the grisly scene back in the Aretino home. "He's so angry, and I understand _why_ , I really do, but he needs...guidance. He's lost so much, and I don't know how to help him but he _needs_ me—and Mara, oh Mara, haven't I been punished enough?"

She lifted her gaze beseechingly, but the statue's face was blank, its mournful visage empty. Monica dropped her head again, absently tracing the burn scars through her sleeve as a fresh wave of tears rolled in. _The Eight scorn the wicked_ , she could remember the priest back at Battlehorn always saying. Maybe it'd been a mistake to come here.

In the end, she rose and shuffled back out into the night, somehow feeling even worse than when she'd entered. She paused in the courtyard to scrub the last of the tears from her face. No matter what she did, she'd have to live with something horrible. Letting an innocent stranger rot in prison for her crime, or send Aventus back to Honorhall to be abused by that horrible headmistress—although he'd just escape again and get himself killed. Or even go so far as to harm the woman himself? She shuddered at the memory of the look in his dark eyes when she'd told the driver they were heading to Riften. There were times he seemed like a sweet, average kid, if not a little odd. And then...well, he had broken into the Hall of the Dead, after all, and he was _so determined_ to see Grelod dead...

There was no way she could leave him to his own devices. It simply wasn't an option. But as she stood there in the temple courtyard, an idea began to take form. She couldn't tell anyone the truth—it would mean revealing herself, and she couldn't afford the risk. But if _Brand-Shei_ were to do it himself...well, maybe there was a way to make things right after all.

* * *

 Her feet were heavy as they carried her to the guardhouse, her heart thundering more furiously with each step. There was still a good chance that things could go horribly wrong, and the worst part was that she had no exit plan. Deep down, she knew she hadn't thought this through, and a voice in the back of her mind was screaming at her to turn and run. But she'd never handled guilt well, and the panic clouding her judgment far outweighed her common sense.

Inside, the guard barely glanced at her as she entered, and she stood fidgeting uncomfortably before him until he finally looked up. "What?"

She blinked, taken aback. "I'm, ah, here to see a prisoner," she began, but he cut her off before she could get any further.

"Name?"

"Name?" For a moment she froze, stumbling over her words. This she hadn't counted on. "It's—it's, err, S-susanna," she stuttered out feebly. She cringed, waiting for the guard to comment on her blunder, but his face remained blank as he leafed through a haphazard stack of parchments.

"There's no prisoner here by that name," he said finally.

"Oh!" She could feel the color flooding her face. Leave it to her to offer up unnecessary information at a time like this. "Brand-Shei," she corrected, more firmly this time. "I'm here to see Brand-Shei."

The guard huffed, rolling his eyes as he hauled himself to his feet. "Follow me, and don't touch anything," he ordered curtly before stalking out of the room. She hurried to catch up, following him through a twisting maze of hallways and down a set of stairs to a room where another guard sat with his feet propped up, clearly absorbed in the book he was reading. "Got a visitor for Brand-Shei," the first guard announced as he unlocked the door and led her through. The other absently nodded as they passed, and Monica cringed as they entered a hallway lined with cells, the torture room beneath Helgen suddenly flashing back to her.

"Brand-Shei!" She nearly jumped out of her skin as the guard let out a bellow, banging a fist against the cell door they'd stopped in front of. "You've got a visitor." He turned back to her. "He'll be watching," he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the doorway, where the other guard still sat hunched over his book. "Don't try anything." And with that, he stalked back toward the stairs.

Monica turned back to the cell door, where a very disgruntled-look Brand-Shei stood glaring at her. "Do I know you?" he snapped. Her racing heart was already sending stabbing pains through her chest, but coming face-to-face with the very real consequences of her actions nearly sent her collapsing to the floor. Her words were failing, and she was struggling to think—even to breath.

"I was in the market today," she blurted out finally. "I...I saw what happened."

For a moment, the Dunmer merely stared at her, then let out a scoff. "And?" She could feel herself withering beneath his scowl, but she forced herself to continue.

"When you go before the Jarl," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, "tell her Madesi has a friend in the guard."

Brand-Shei's scowl deepened. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked slowly, and she took a deep breath.

"I think you might have been framed."

His face froze, and his eyes slowly widened. "Madesi was behind this?" He slowly inhaled, and somehow, he seemed even angrier than before. "How do you know about this? Who sent you?"

"No one!" she quickly protested, but he lunged forward, his hand shooting through the bars and locking around her wrist.

"Tell me what you know!" he barked.

"Let go!" she shrieked, throwing her weight backward and tearing her arm free of his grasp.

" _Hey!_ " There was a shout as the guard dashed into the room, his book apparently forgotten. "What's going on in here?"

Monica staggered back, recovering her balance. "Nothing," she said quietly, adjusting her sleeve. Looking up, she locked eyes with Brand-Shei. "I have to go now." And she fled, even as his shouts followed her up the stairs.

* * *

 She practically ran from the keep, drawing her hood around her face for security rather than warmth. That had _not_ been what she'd expected—although the more she thought about it, she wasn't sure what she _had_ expected in the first place. Her blood was still roaring through her ears, but as her gait and her heart both slowed, she began to feel foolish. What had she been trying to prove in the first place? She had money now. It was the sole reason they'd come to Riften. If she had any sense at all, she would have put herself and Aventus on the first carriage out of here the moment it was in her hands. So why hadn't she?

There was hooded figure up ahead, skulking by the stairs to the city's lower level, and she tugged her cloak a little closer to herself as she shivered, fighting her impulse to speed up. She was done with this city, and done with her own stupidity. First thing in the morning, she and Aventus were getting on a carriage to Whiterun and never speaking of this awful place again. "Hey," the figure rasped as she drew closer. "Want to buy some—"

But whatever he was about to say next was cut off with a short gasp. "By Azura," he breathed. " _Monica Aretino?_ "

All the breath left her lungs in a rush.

She froze in her tracks, swiveling to face the figure as he threw back his hood—to reveal none other than Romlyn Dreth.

Her vision was beginning to swim. It was all flooding back: the mountain, the Jarl, _Helgen…_

It was always there, of course, in her dreams and her scars and in little details of the world around her—things she could never quite look at the same way. But she was slowly learning, figuring out ways to force it back down before it could overtake her. None of that made any difference, however, when it came roaring out of the darkness to smack her right in the face. He was speaking, and somehow, despite the ringing in her ears, she managed to decipher his words.

"Is it really you?" he was asking. "By Azura, I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. And here of all places!" He hesitated, and she saw the flicker of something flash across his face. Guilt, perhaps? "Look, Monica...I didn't mean to leave you, all right? I thought you were right behind me, honest. I swear. But by the time I figured out you were gone I couldn't see you and there were soldiers everywhere and—"

"It's all right, Romlyn." She numbly cut in before he could get any further. The last thing she needed right now was to relive the details of that night in any more vivid detail than she was already experiencing. _Romlyn Dreth_ —someone she never thought she'd see again. And _here_ of all places. But it made sense, of course: he'd mentioned living in Riften—and this city was turning out to be her own personal nightmare. "It's good to see you again."

"And you too—in one piece no less." He sighed, running a hand across his head. "Guess it's lucky the Imperials happened along when they did, then. They rescued you? Got you to a healer?"

He didn't know.

The thought was so absurd she could have laughed out loud. How could he, though—he was long gone by the time she was captured. He didn't know that she'd knelt in a dead man's blood awaiting her own death. He didn't know that the sky had turned to fire and the streets had been strewn with broken bodies. And he didn't know that a monstrous creature that was only supposed to exist in myth had laid an entire village to waste before landing just inches from her face. But he was still staring at her, awaiting an answer—and after everything, what was one more lie?

"Yeah," she said, nervously shuffling her feet together. It was partially true, at least—Hadvar _was_ a member of the Legion, after all. "Yeah, they...took care of me."

Romlyn's relief was visible, and so she decided to let him keep it. Let him sleep a little easier at night—at least one of them ought to. "But hey—you're here in Riften!" he said brightly. "Find your cousin?"

She nodded, swallowing the urge to scream. This was too much—standing here in the middle of the street and making nice. As if they hadn't been prisoners of a megalomaniac madman just months ago. But when it came down to it, Romlyn had walked away, virtually unscathed aside from the loss of his stolen mead—and she had been left to burn and die.

But she forced a smile to her face just the same. Somehow, it felt wrong—too stiff, all teeth. "Yes," she said. "He's back at the inn now." Back at the inn, and safe. For the time being, at least. Until the money ran out. Or until some other disaster befell them. Luck had not been on their side so far. Her hand tightened into a fist as she remembered the freak blizzard in Windhelm. And although every time she'd cowered at a shadow overhead had been for naught so far, the dragon was still out there—somewhere.

"Good." Something in his expression faltered then, as if he were just noticing her icy quiet. "I'm glad you're all right." When she didn't respond, he frowned. "Monica?" He leaned in closer. "You are all right, aren't you?"

He wanted so badly for it to be true—she could see it in his eyes, even in the faint lamplight. He needed it. And _she_ needed it, whether she liked it or not. She was so tired—tired of fighting a war she couldn't win, and tired of trying to be someone she wasn't. The girl she had been had died in the flames on the mountain—and whatever was left of her had a job to do.

Lying had never come naturally to her, but Romlyn wasn't the one she needed to convince here. So she softened her demeanor, and in her most earnest voice, she informed him that she was, in fact, all right. That the Legion had rescued her, that Aventus was safe and that they were simply waiting for spring for passage back to Cyrodiil.

And Romlyn bought it, the worry fading from the corners of his eyes as he allowed himself to relax. But it fell flat just the same, the words ringing hollow in her own ears as she spoke them. And she knew, deep down, that telling a lie wasn't enough. Only by living it would she have any chance of convincing herself.


End file.
